The Breaking Point
by Linkforever125
Summary: America tries to stay strong for the other countries, but stress from the job at hand and painful memories from his past keep him from being the Hero. Now, as his past comes back to haunt him and his world begins to crumble around him because of the war with Russia, America starts to give up. How can he cope with himself and how can the other nations help? Rated T for swearing.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Okay, I know you're probably like, what the heck? Yes, I realize that I have uploaded this before, but, because I had a major rage-quit yesterday, I took it out on all of my fanfictions. I feel really stupid now...

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers.

* * *

America trudged down the dimly lit hallway and slammed his keys down on the table when he reached the kitchen. He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a plate of hamburgers and a couple of beers, taking them into the living room where he plopped down onto the couch and turned on the TV. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and stretched. He was tired, sore, and the headache that was slowly returning was not helping his foul mood.

He had just come home from another World Meeting and was feeling anything but how the other nations would classify him as normal; a stuck up snob who always got into other peoples' business and shouted "I'm the hero!" every five seconds. He did not feel up to being loud, nor did he want people bothering or complaining to him. When he was not happy, he liked to be alone, and he was never happy when he was away from the other nations. That's when he let his act slip.

America sighed and flipped through channels, finally deciding to watch Jersey Shore on MTV. He was so engrossed in the latest drama between Snooki and Pauly D that he didn't notice Tony, his white alien friend, walk into the room and sit down next to him on the couch.

"Hey," he said, poking America's side. "Where were you all day?"

"World Conference," America replied, his voice deadpan. His eyes didn't move from the screen as he took a bite of his fourth hamburger and downed another beer. Tony, unaffected by America's mood, pulled out a videogame from who-knows-where and waved it in front of his face.

"That new videogame you wanted came in the mail today from Japan. You wanna play?"

America was growing increasingly annoyed and he had to count to ten to keep from hitting the little alien. "Not now, Tony," he snapped. "I'm not in the mood."

Tony pouted and sulked out of the room, his arms crossed. "You're never in the mood for anything when you're home," he mumbled. "Sometimes I wish you would just stay at those stupid meetings..." His voice became fainter and fainter until it finally died away and silence fell.

America sighed and turned off the TV. Immediately, the house was cloaked in darkness and chills went up his spine. He grabbed his leftover hamburgers and beer and put it in the fridge, then walked slowly up the stairs. He walked down a long hallway and burst through the oak double doors at the end of it, growing more agitated by the minute. He was getting ridiculously tired and didn't know how late it was, but he assumed it was past midnight because World Conferences always ran late since they could never get anything done. All he wanted to do was sleep; he found that sleep was the only thing that took his mind off of all of the crap he had to endure throughout meetings and the entire day. When he was angry, he slept. When he was depressed, he slept. Even when he was actually in a good mood, and those times were few and far between, he slept. No wonder he was always late to the World Conferences.

America kicked off his shoes and took off his bomber jacket, hanging it on a post in the corner of his room by his closet. He took off his lighter jacket and loosed his tie, then shed himself off his pants, only to replace them with a pair of long plaid pajama bottoms. He threw off his tie, unbuttoned and slipped out of his dress shirt, then put on a more breathable, white cotton shirt and flung himself onto his bed. He was about to close his eyes and welcome the blissful sleep he had been waiting for all day when he remembered he still had Texas on. In a small surge of anger, he grabbed hold of Texas and threw it at the wall; but off course it wouldn't break, it was Texas. He didn't have any problems with that state at the moment.

He reached over to his bedside table and picked up his cell phone to check the time. The light from the screen blinded him and made him squint, but through his scrunched up eyes he could see the numbers 2:45. He shook his head and set the phone down, then settled himself underneath his covers and tried to get some much needed sleep. It took a lot of tossing and turning to find the right position, but when he did, he closed his eyes and he was once again whisked away to a land where no wars were fought and happiness ruled over everything.

* * *

It was only a few hours later when a loud buzzing sound roused America out of his sleep. He groaned and slammed his hand on the table; he did_ not_ want to deal with this right now. Searching the table with his hand, he finally found his phone and brought it to his face to check it. England was calling and it was 5 o'clock in the morning.

_Five o'clock in the morning._

America sweared to himself and answered the phone. "Hello?" His voice was quiet and he was too tired and angry to put on his "hero" act.

"_America, you bloody git_!" came the frustrated British voice from the other end of the line. "_Where the hell are you_?"

"At home, trying to sleep. Why, pray tell, do you feel the need to bother me?"

Back in his own country, England growled into the phone and looked around the room at everyone's impatient faces. He was in Buckingham Palace having the second part of the World Conference and America was the only one that was not present.

Germany sat at the head of the table, as always, and he was looking pissed as ever."Where the hell is he?" he roared, standing up from his seat. Everyone ceased their chatter and turned to stare at him. "Doesn't he know there's another meeting today?"

"_There's a meeting today? Where? None told me_!"

"It's in London, at Buckingham Palace, you moron. You obviously weren't listening when I announced it yesterday."

"_Yesterday? That was like, three hours ago! I'm trying to sleep, man! Just tell everyone I'm not coming_."

"You have to be here. Everyone else is, so why should you be the only exception?"

"_Look, I'm tired, I have a headache, and I don't feel like dealing with your shit right now_." There was a long pause and everybody in the room strained their ears to hear the response. After a few minutes of silence, America's voice could just barely be heard replying. "_Fine, I'll be there soon. Don't wait for me though, since I'm already late enough as it is_." His tone was mocking and as soon as he was finished, the dial tone could be heard. He had hung up and was getting ready to leave.

England pulled the phone away from his ear and closed it slowly, staring off into space as he tried to understand what had just happened. America sounded so...angry and tired. Not tired as in sleepy, but tired as in defeated. It was unusual to hear America like this. Actually, it was unusual to hear him use any tone other than his normal, bubbly shouting voice. What was wrong with him? Was he going through another economic depression? The other nations looked at England expectantly, waiting for him to tell them what happened.

Germany, being the impatient country he is, was the first to speak. He glared at England and growled. "Well, what's going on?" he demanded.

England snapped out of his trance and looked at the worried faces in the room. It was curious that now, of all times, they actually cared about America. Before, they passed it off as nothing and minded their own business. But now, they were genuinely concerned. England put his phone back in his pocket and stared out of the window, looking at his people going about their business. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I don't know."

* * *

America got off his private plane in a huff. He had not known of the meeting nor did he care to be there in the first place. As soon as he got off the phone with England, he reluctantly got out of bed and put on his previously discarded clothes. He bomber jacket was once again on his back and his shoes were on his feet where they belonged. His pants and dress shirt were faintly wrinkled, but what did the other nations expect when he had hastily taken them off and deposited them on the floor to go to bed and get some much needed rest? Did they really think he would care about his appearance at such an early hour of the morning?

It was 6 o'clock when he left New York and 11 o'clock when he arrived in London. One of England's assistants was there to escort him through Buckingham Palace and to the meeting room. He was led through many disgustingly wallpapered hallways, up many annoying and twisty stairs, and then down even more gross hallways. What was it with the Queen and flowers?

When they arrived in front of two giant mahogany doors, the assistant nodded to America and walked away. America stood outside of the meeting room for a few minutes, contemplating how he should make his entrance. Should he burst in with a loud "The Hero has entered the building! Your lives just got better!" or should he just slip in casually? He shook his head and sighed and it was at that moment that he realized he had left his glasses and his briefcase at home. Wonderful.

Shaking his head, America threw open the doors and strutted in, a big, fake smile plastered on his face. "What's up bros?" he shouted. "Ya miss me?" he walked over to the only empty seat, it was by France, oh joy, and sat down, his grin never wavering. Every nation stopped chatting at once and stared at him, but why he didn't know. Was it because he wasn't wearing Texas? Were his lips twitching? He better come up with something funny, and quick, before-

"What happened to your glasses?" England asked. He sat across the table and next to Russia, who was sitting on a very disturbed looking Canada. If America strained his ears hard enough he could hear the faint whimpers of "Maple!" coming from his northern neighbor.

America shrugged and brought his hand up to his nose out of habit. When he remembered that Texas wasn't there he chuckled and cracked his fingers. "Left them at home. No big deal. Why are you guys all silent? What, has my presence left you speechless?" No one spoke. America began to get annoyed but refrained from showing his anger. "Oh you guys are a bunch of boring old cows. Come on, let's start the meeting!"

Everyone stared for a few moments longer before Germany cleared his throat impatiently and rose out of his seat. "I agree, let's begin." Everyone turned to him and the meeting was now officially back in session, although some people did not take their eyes off America, which annoyed him to no end. As Germany droned on and on about how to reduce global warming, America became increasingly angrier and it took him all of his willpower to not let a scowl show on his face. He must keep his act up, for his pride! If he let his true emotions show he would never hear the end of it.

China suddenly raised his hand and took a break from shaking his head and muttering "Western nations are so immature," since England and France were once again at each other's throats, literally. Germany was too busy yelling at said nations to notice China and almost went over to intervene when Japan spoke up.

"Doitsu-san, I think China has something to say." he said quietly. America scoffed to himself and shook his head.

_Of course he has something to say_ he thought bitterly_. He's waving his hand so much it looks like he's about to piss himself!_

Germany turned to face China but caught sight of America shaking his head first. He cocked his head to the side and shot him a questioning glance. He was oddly quiet this meeting and everyone hated to admit it, but they were a bit worried. His glance was returned with a glare which made him even more worried. America was never in a bad mood; at least, he never showed it.

"Uh, yes, China?" he said. China let out a breath of satisfaction in knowing that someone was paying attention.

"Since we are on the topic of global warming, or _were_," he added, glaring at England and France who had stopped their quarreling long enough to listen for a few seconds and steal glances at America. "How are we supposed to prevent the deterioration of our landmarks, aru? My Great Wall is crumbling in many places and there's nothing I can do to prevent further damage, aru!"

"Yeah, the Statue of Liberty over at my place in getting rusty and stuff. Maybe we should invent this super-mecha-death-ray that puts a force field around our landmarks or something!" America piped up. He needed to start participating because he noticed people were becoming more suspicious and glancing over at him every few minutes. Across the table, Russia, who was still sitting on Canada, laughed.

"Landmark? The Statue of Liberty wasn't even made by you. It's as much yours as everything is Korea's."

America's eye twitched and Russia watched in amusement while everybody else looked on with concern. What was Russia hinting at? Was he purposefully trying to make America angry?

"It sits in _my _country; _my_ land. So what if it was a gift? It sure as hell beats your run down, old-ass swirly castle thing."

Russia laughed again and the mood got even tenser. "You don't even know what my landmark is called and yet you stand up for that rusty hunk of metal that-"

In a flash quicker that lighting, America was out of his seat and on his feet, a pistol pointed it Russia's head. He cocked the gun and it made a loud _click_ to show everyone that it was loaded and ready to fire. Everyone's eyes widened and they stared at America in horror. Even Russia looked surprised, but he quickly hid it behind a smile.

"Nobody insults Lady Liberty," America said slowly, his voice dangerously low. His words were practically dripping with venom and his finger itched to pull the trigger. Switzerland smirked and gave him a slight nod of approval, but his smirk quickly vanished when Germany took it upon himself to intervene.

"America, put that gun away right now or-" He was silenced but another click and another gun pointed at his face.

"Or what?" America spat. "I'd like to see you try anything."

"A-America, what's gotten into you?" England stuttered. If he had a third hand, America would've pointed a gun at his head, too, but unfortunately, he neither had a third hand nor a third gun in his possession. His pistols were kept in two secret pockets on the inside of his bomber jacket and he had never thought of using them until now. What perfect timing.

"I know what you're all thinking," he began. "'Whiny little, stuck up America's never angry. He can't get mad at us, right?' Wrong. I pissed as fuck and that smug look on your face really isn't helping." He glared at Russia as he spoke, making sure to keep his voice calm and steady. "Don't bother trying to hide your surprise, Russia. Why bother when I've already seen it? Oh, that's right. Your pride is more important than the shape of your face." He pressed down on the trigger lightly. He wanted to pull it so badly, to shoot Russia and Germany and everybody else on the spot, but what good would that do him? Nothing; it would most likely start another war, the exact opposite of what he wanted.

Germany took a step forward to try and calm the younger nation but it only enraged him further. He moved the gun to the left and fired, just far enough to miss his head, but just close enough for it to whizz past Germany's ear. The gunshot made everyone in their seats jump and it made Germany almost have a heart attack.

"Don't move!" America yelled. He was really getting impatient and he just wanted to leave. "I have had enough of all of your shit." he growled. "I have tried to stay calm and seem happy for the sake of others, but you have literally pushed me to my breaking point. I'm done. I'm sick of the arguing, sick of the fighting, sick of the wars. I cannot tolerate any of you anymore." He lingered around with his pistols still raised for a few moments before finally slipping them back into his jacket pockets. With one final glare to everyone, he spun on his heel, stormed up to the doors, and bashed them open, not giving the group of nations another glance as he walked out.

The room was quiet as the nations listened to America's thundering footsteps die away. Everyone looked accusingly at Russia and Germany, blaming them for America's less than stable state of mind. Russia cleared his throat, readjusted his tie, and looked over to Germany for some sort of hint as to what to do next. Germany, who was still recovering from the shock of a bullet flying so close to his head, walked back to his seat on shaky legs. All eyes were on him as everyone waited for a direction in which to go. When he didn't speak, England cleared his throat loudly to get everyone's attention.

"I think we all need to relax and have some time to ourselves," he said quickly, looking every nation in the eye. When he reached Russia, he glared and gathered up his things, putting them in his briefcase and snapping it shut. "Meeting is adjourned."

* * *

America fell onto his bed and sighed. After what happened at the World Conference, he was exhausted and just wanted to sleep. He had already shed his clothes and gotten back into his pajamas and was now currently trying to get into a comfy position underneath his bed covers. It was only around 2 o'clock in the afternoon, but he didn't care.

He had just found the right spot and closed his eyes when his cell phone starting vibrating on his bedside table, making a loud and obnoxious sound. America growled and let it ring; he wasn't in the mood to answer any questions. The vibrating ended a few moments later, but another few moments after that, it started vibrating again. America slammed his hand down on the table and picked up the phone, practically ripping the cover off of its hinges. "What?" he hissed. He just wanted to be left alone.

"_Uh, hey. It's me," _the voice said. America groaned inwardly and looked up at his bare white ceiling. It was England, and he knew he would never hear the end of this.

"What do you want?"

"_To know what the bloody hell is wrong with you. What were you thinking, pulling out two guns like that? What's gotten into you?"_

"I appreciate your…concern, but I regret to inform you that I don't give a fuck."

"_Look, America, I don't care what your excuse is. I know you too well to figure out that something is going on. What is it? Is it another economic depression? Any natural disaster? Come on, you git. You know you can tell me,"_

America scoffed. "And since when do you care? Why don't you keep your nose in your own God damn business!"

"_I could say the exact same thing about you! You know what, fine. Go on and be pissy for all I care. Don't expect me to help you when you need it. Honestly, I don't even know why I bothered to call…" _England hung up and the dial tone echoed in America's ears. Angrily, he snapped his phone shut and threw it at the wall where it shattered into pieces. He sat up in his bed and held his head in his hands, feeling the tears beginning to form in his eyes.

_No, _he told himself. _I will not cry. I'm the hero, and heroes don't cry! I'm the hero, I'm the hero, I'm the-_

The tears came down in a matter of seconds, but when they did, America didn't protest. He ran his hands through his hair and cried his heart out; he let out centuries of pent up emotions, starting from the very moment he declared independence. All of his guilt, all of his shame, all of his anger and grief was released at that moment and he didn't care. He didn't care about being the hero or being brave or tough. At that moment, he was just another human, crying over hundreds of years of mistakes.

* * *

AN: Yeah, so, those of you who had this on alert and favorited, I'm sorry? Haha, I really wasn't thinking straight yesterday. So uh, please review?

Mei-Ling out :3


	2. Chapter 2

AN: So, here's chapter two. Now, when I first posted this, there was some confusion as to why I wrote it. I'm aware that it's basically just what came from the anime. But, this is _fanfiction; _you're supposed to use what the author has already given you and put your own twist on it. Well, my twist on this is just simply explaining some emotions better. So don't come here reviewing "Oh this is stupid and unoriginal. It's just a written down version of America's Storage Room Cleaning." No, it's not, not really. The middle part, after the Revolutionary War flashback, is original, I made it up. America never did that in the anime (giving his stuff back to England). The flashbacks are there to futher explain what they were thinking and it ties in with this story, you'll see. I'll get to it in later chapters. Now, to clear some other things up...

**dattebayo4321- **Thanks for reviewing! And yes, I'm fine, but as I was writing what's above this, I began to get irritated. I was just mad about something and, in a fit of rage and incoherent thinking, decided "Hey, why don't I be stupid and delete all of my stories and then permantently delete other story ideas from my computer?" But all is well now, and luckily enough, I was sane enough not to delete this and another story. Close call! If you really want to know what happened, because it does pertain to fanfiction, just PM me.

**Shadow-Gaze14- **Thanks for your review! But, as you can see, this is not a one-shot. If you liked the first chapter alone, I completely understand. You don't have to read this chapter if you just liked my story as a one-shot. There was supposed to be a plot to it, though. If you want to find out what happens, then by all means, keep reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers

* * *

_1775-1783: The American Revolutionary War_

_It was pouring rain again, the third day in a row where there was no sunshine. Little streams popped up everywhere and washed away the soil underneath people's feet and in some areas it created large pools. On a flat plain in the country, the rain came down steadily and drenched the short brown grass. It gathered in little puddles that were scattered all over and it mixed with the rich dirt to create mud. It was on this plain that America stood with his militia to back him up, his musket raised and ready to fire. The silver bayonet blade attached to it gleamed in the rain, flashing to show that it hungered for blood. A little ways across from him, his red uniform splattered with mud much like America's blue one, was Britain, the kingdom so loathed and despised in America. He stood rigidly with his own musket at his side, his jaw clenched tightly in silent fuming anger._

_"Hey, Britain!" America called. He voice was fierce and full of malice. He gripped his musket tighter and glared at his older brother, silently daring him to move or make an advancement. He waited a few seconds but no such action came, so he continued to speak, gaining confidence in himself and his army with every word he spoke. "All I want is my freedom! I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"_

_He saw Britain's eyes glint with hatred and sadness, but he felt no remorse for his words. He meant everything he said and he would never take it back. He no longer felt like Britain's little brother, but rather a pack mule who was forced to do all of the dirty work while Britain sat back and drank tea. He was tired of the fighting on the land he felt belonged to him. He was tired of the soldiers, the taxes, the strict laws. But most of all, he wanted the independence he believed he deserved, and there was nothing he wouldn't do to achieve it. _

_England took up his musket and charged suddenly, catching America off guard. His boots splashed in the mud puddles as he rushed up to America, his bayonet pointed and ready to kill. In a last effort of defense, America held up his musket over his chest. Britain's bayonet ground itself into the polished wood and the gun flung out of America's hands, soaring into the air and splashing into the wet ground a few feet away. America didn't have time to react, however, for his gaze was now fixed upon the shining silver bayonet blade that was mere inches from his face. He stared at it with a great horror slowly creeping into his heart. Surely Britain wouldn't actually kill him, right? He was just bluffing, nothing more. But as he stared at the blade and noticed how it stayed firm and straight, he knew this was the end of the line. His spirits sank and he let out a few shaky breaths. The war was over and he had lost._

_England panted and glared at his younger brother. "I won't allow it." he declared. "You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?"_

_"Ready! Aim!" The general behind him ordered. Clicks rang out among the few rows of men and a couple dozen muskets were raised and ready to fire. To America's surprise, Britain wasn't the least bit intimidated even though they outnumbered him ten to one. He held his ground and his gun firmly, refusing to give up without a fight. It was Britain's next action that surprised and made America question the outcome of the war even more._

_Britain lowered his gun until it was clutched loosely by his side. There were conflicting emotions in his eyes; the love for his younger brother and the hatred of him for betraying him clashed repeatedly and was plain to see. He let out a defeated sigh and his shoulders sagged. "There's no way I can shoot you," he said. His voice sounded tired and torn. "I can't." He let go of his musket, willing it to drop onto the damp earth with a softened thud. Not a few moments later he too was on the ground, his head in his hand and the other keeping him steady on the uneven soil. His whole body began to shake and a few of what sounded like sobs escaped from his lips. "Why?" he cried. "Damn it why? It's not fair!" _

_America looked down at him with pity, suddenly overcome by sadness and guilt. He had only ever seen Britain cry once before, and that was when he almost went with France rather than him. The memory came rushing back to him and he almost started to tear up, but when he remembered why he was fighting, all sorrow was gone. "You know why," he said quietly. Another memory came flooding back; Britain was holding his hand out, encouraging America to take it. "Let's go home," he said, and America laughed and took his hand in his own. It was soft and gentle; his grip was not too loose, not too tight. He remembered looking up to him and seeing that big smile on his face; the smile that made him smile no matter what the circumstances. Coming back to reality, America stared down at the man he used to look up to, the man he wanted to be when he grew up. "What happened?" he asked, but he knew Britain wouldn't answer. "I remember when you were great..."_

_He had made his older brother cry. He had betrayed him after he gave him so much and to this day, he still had nothing to give in return._

_That was his first mistake._

* * *

America sat at his dining room table with his head propped up by his arm, his other hand lazily pushing the oatmeal around in his bowl. Texas was once again resting on his nose and his broken cell phone still lay where it had landed the night before. He was still bitter and wasn't in the mood for company, but having no company made him bored. He at least needed some communication, but because he was stupid enough to break his phone the night before, there was no way for him to contact anybody. He sat up straight and looked at his breakfast bowl emptily, wondering what he should do since he was getting restless.

He sighed and pushed his bowl away; he wasn't even hungry, and that was a first for him. He stood up from the table and walked out of the kitchen, letting his legs take him wherever they wanted to go. He passed the living room and saw Tony playing the new video game he told him about yesterday, but he didn't bother stopping to join him. Tony noticed him out of the corner of his eye but pretended not to notice; he was probably still pissed at America, and America didn't blame him.

The troubled nation slowly drifted up his grand staircase as if he were merely floating on a light breeze. When he reached the top, he turned right and went up a narrower staircase that led into another hall. He was relieved at seeing bare beige walls and having a break from the sickly floral wallpaper that covered the walls at the meeting yesterday. Remembering what happened the day before made him sick to his stomach, so he quickly cleared the thought from his head. His still had no idea where he was going, but somehow, he ended up in his storage room.

Immediately, memories of the last time he was up here entered his mind. He remembered Lithuania living with him for some time and the day he decided to do a little "shit cleaning" as he had called it. He instantly regretted entering the room for it brought nothing but painful memories, but for some odd reason he couldn't find it in himself to actually turn around and leave. Instead, he milled about the dusty boxes that were piled almost as high as the ceiling. They contained nothing special, just a few random things he had collected over the decades. As he wandered around the room, he came across a table littered with old wooden toys. He smiled faintly and picked one up, turning it over to see its face.

It was one of the wooden soldiers that England had given him when he was just a young boy, many centuries ago. He had almost broken his hand when he tried to make them, for America remembered his arm in a sling and a slight look of pain on his face. He had said that he painted each one by hand and gave them all different faces. They were dressed in red coats, the infamous symbol of the British Empire back in their heyday. America had played with them for countless hours; he didn't even know how they ended up in his attic, but nevertheless, they were there, taunting him with their red coats and furrowed eyebrows as if they were accusing him of a terrible crime.

America shook his head and gathered up the soldiers, carefully laying them back in their box and closing the lid tightly. He didn't want to remember the past; it hurt him when he did. When he thought of the good times he used to have with England, before he became strict and ultimately drove America to declaring independence and breaking his heart, his chest constricted with pain and he felt like he was about to cry. He avoided thinking about the past as much as possible, but sometimes it crept up on him and caught him by surprise.

He turned away from the box of soldiers and went over to a chest on the floor. It contained the old suit that England gave him. He only wore it a few times and he felt bad that it was up in his attic collecting dust. Shaking his head, he put the suit on the table and continued to rummage through the chest. When he couldn't find anything interesting, he turned to head back out, but a glint of metal caught his eye.

America knew what it was and he didn't want to see it, but something inside him pulled him toward it. He gently lifted his Revolutionary War musket out of the chest and held it up to his face. He looked at the long scratch in the wood and memories from almost 300 years ago came flooding back. He remembered the look of sadness and hatred on England's face and he remembered his own feelings of defeat and guilt for letting his people down. He remembered England suddenly letting go of his gun and dropping to the ground and bursting into tears. But worst of all, he remembered the horrible words he spoke, the daggers he used to open England's wounds even more.

_"What happened? I remember when you were great..."_

America threw the musket back into the chest, crumbled to the floor, and began to cry. Damn it, why did he have to say that? Why did he have to add insult to injury? England was hurting enough as it was, but then he had to go and hurt him deeper by saying how great he used to be and what a pathetic country he was at the time. Why did America have to screw everything up?

He let the tears flow freely down his cheeks. He knew he deserved it, and yet, a part of him still told him that what he did was right. If he didn't fight for his freedom, he wouldn't even be a country! He was one of the world's superpowers now and he became that way from declaring independence from another superpower. He was proud of that, but he was also ashamed and guilty he had to hurt his older brother deeply to become what he was today. It just wasn't fair; nothing was ever fair!

America picked himself off the floor and wiped his eyes. He decided that he never wanted to be reminded of his past again, so with a renewed vigor, he took his suit and the box of wooden soldiers in his hands. He reached for the musket in the chest but something made him stop. He didn't want to keep it, but deep down in his heart he couldn't part with it. For a few minutes America stood staring at his gun, his hand outstretched. A few times he tried to bend down and pick it up, but it was as if there was a force field around it. When he finally managed to overcome his sudden protectiveness of the object, he slowly closed the chest's lid, latching it and making sure it was tightly locked and secured. He knew it would be a long time before it would be opened again.

Objects in hand, he went around searching for an empty box. When he found one, he carefully placed the suit and soldiers inside. He took the box and, pausing at the doorway to look at the sealed chest one last time, brought it downstairs where he searched for packing tape, a label, and a Sharpie. Before he packed the box and prepped it for shipping, he scribbled down a quick note on a piece of paper and threw it in with the other items. He took a good long look at the objects inside and then taped the flaps shut. Peeling the blank label off and sticking onto the box, he wrote down England's address, using his human name, of course. When he inspected the box for the last time, he frowned but nevertheless carried the box outside where he put it in the mailbox to be shipped.

As soon as he walked back into the house and closed the door, he instantly regretted packing up his things. He wanted to go out and take his belongings back, but what good would that do him? Every time he saw those things he would just burst into tears again. It was time he moved on and stopped hurting himself and his friends. So, with a small nod to himself and a little bit of his guilt lifted off his chest, he set out to find Tony and finally play that new videogame he ordered.

He never realized that what he just did would have the same effect on England as his first mistake.

* * *

England paced the length of his kitchen, a spatula in one hand and his other in his mouth as he bit his fingernails. It was a few days after what happened at Buckingham Palace and he was becoming increasingly worried about America. He hadn't heard from him in three and a half days and he was starting to get concerned. Was America okay? Did he need help? What exactly was going on? Hundreds of questions swirled around in his head that couldn't be answered, at least, not by himself.

It angered England that he was caring so much for the country that broke his heart so long ago. Constantly throughout the past three and a half days England had scolded and told himself it was stupid to care. Why should he get involved anyway? Surely America was just being a brat. He would bounce back eventually. After all, America could never stay mad at anyone for a long time, except for maybe Russia. So why should he get himself into one of America's problems? Couldn't the "Hero" figure this out by himself?

"Bloody idiot!" England said out loud to himself_. I just need to stop thinking about it, that's all. I don't care what happens to him. He betrayed me, so I shouldn't worry myself over his mistakes. Listen to me! Why do I even bother with him? Nope, that's it. From now on, I won't even think about him. After all, I don't care._

England looked at his clock above the stove and decided it was time to get his mail. The mail always came at 2 o'clock and since it was already 2:35, it should be delivered. He set his spatula down on the cookie sheet on the counter and headed for the front door, not bothering to take off his apron. He reached into his mailbox and pulled out a few letters and was surprised when he found a box on the ground a few feet away. He picked it up and examined it closely; his address was written in America's handwriting. A look of confusion passed over his face but it was soon replaced with excitement. A package from America? Who knows what it could be!

He brought the box inside and opened it immediately. The first thing he saw was a little piece of paper folded in half. Curious, he opened it and grew even more confused at what he read.

_ England,_

_I've been doing some cleaning lately and found some things that you gave me from awhile ago. I figured I would never use them again, so I'm giving them back to you. You deserve them because I never did. _

_-America_

"Old stuff? What did I give him so long ago? I don't even-" England stopped short when he saw a brown wooden box with red and blue checkers on it. He took hold of it carefully, gently lifting it out of the box. He opened it slowly and gasped when he saw what was inside.

"_No way! Is it really okay for me to have it?" America exclaimed. He ran forward with the box in his hands and a big smile on his face. England turned around and smiled, revealing his arm in a sling._

"_Of course it is!" he said with a smile. "I did make it special just for you, America." He looked down at his younger brother and warmth filled his heart. He loved it when America was happy; the bond they shared was deeper than any words could describe. _

"_Oh man, this is cool!" America said, looking down at the box. He suddenly looked up at England with his eyes shining with happiness. "Thanks Mr. Britain sir!"_

_England laughed and smiled widely. America's smile was contagious; he always smiled when America did. "Take good care of it," he playfully warned. "After all, I nearly broke my hand while I was piecing it together."_

"_Wow, now I've got my very own toy soldiers!" America took two of the wooden soldiers out of the box and held them up to his face, gleaming with excitement and joy from the new gift. He gasped and he smiled even wider; England wasn't even sure if smiling that wide was physically possible. "You made all their faces different!" He laughed and took more out to inspect their facial expressions._

_England crouched down to be at eye level with his younger brother. "I painted each individual figure separately," he said in an effort to show off his skills. America looked at him with adoration in his eyes and held up his toy soldiers, proudly showing England just how much he liked them._

The memory came back to England in a flash as quick as lightning and in a few minutes there were tears in his eyes. He looked over each soldier with a ghost of a smile on his face, remembering the countless hours he spent making them and how he almost broke his hand in the process. The toys were faded and worn out now, and seeing them in this condition made his heart break. Why was America sending them back? England _had _made them just for him, so why didn't he want to keep them? He pushed the box aside and pulled out the last remaining item of the box. It was the suit that he had given America; he remembered him complaining about it being too uncomfortable. A small smile tugged at his lips and it sent him into another flashback.

"_Hey what's with the suit?" America asked as he held up a black and white suit for England to see. He was confused as to why England would give him such a thing. What occasion would he ever where it for? "It looks expensive. Too bad I'll never wear it."_

"_You should," England said hotly. "Dressing like a pauper isn't in fashion. I refuse to be seen with you if you're not dressed properly."_

_America pouted and looked up at England with a questioning glance. "So what's the matter? I think the way I dress is perfectly acceptable!" Despite his protests, he reluctantly put the suit on over his clothes and stood in front of the mirror on the wall, tugging at the sides of it to get a more comfortable fit. _

_England crossed his arms and gave America a smile that said "I told you so." "See?" he said as America checked himself out with silent disapproval. "Dressed like that it's hard to believe you're the same person!"_

"_Sure, but this isn't comfortable. I guess I'll just wear it on special occasions then."_

England wiped furiously at his eyes, refusing to believe that he was getting emotional over something stupid like this. It was just a few wooden soldiers and an old suit! It was nothing to cry about! But as he stared at the items laid before him, he couldn't help but feel an extreme sadness. America was an idiot for sending these back, he thought. He should've kept them because they were technically his. England had given these to him as a gift and he intended for them to stay in his possession.

He tried to push the memories out of his mind, but because they were already brought back, they couldn't be ignored. Wiping his eyes, England packed the things back in the box and brought them up to his room where he sat down on his bed and cried until he thought he could cry no more.

* * *

AN: Meh, I didn't mean to rant so much at the beginning, but it had to be said. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please comment/review and tell me what you liked/disliked. I appreciate the comments I get, be it bad or good. They motivate me to write and help point out some things I could improve. I look forward to your thoughts and I respect everyone's opinions.

Questions about this fic or others? (I sound like some kind of commercial :D) PM me and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

Mei-Ling out :3


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Hello, I'm back! Here's chapter 3 of this story. I still haven't finished chapter 4 and I'm currently working on something else, too, so don't expect an update for about a week, give or take a few days.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers.

* * *

America pouted and threw his controller onto the floor, turning to Tony who was smirking at the stats screen. He had just lost another game against Tony in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 and was anything but happy. Usually he would kick ass at this game, but for the past three weeks he wasn't good at anything. Ever since the World Conference he wasn't in the mood for much.

Tony laughed and restarted the game. "Come on!" he said. "Let's play another round!"

America reluctantly picked up his controller, but a smile found its way onto his face when he saw how much fun Tony was having. He always felt it was unfair to treat him like crap just because he was having a bad day, which was basically every day. He figured he should make it up to him somehow, so when Tony asked him to play videogames that Saturday morning, he couldn't refuse. He counted himself lucky that Tony even forgave him for being a dick to him after the World Conference. He smiled and turned back to the screen. "I'm totally kicking your ass this time," he stated matter-of-factly.

Tony laughed. "We'll see about that."

America was in the perfect hiding spot and was about to shoot Tony when the new phone that he finally got around to buying the week before vibrated in his pocket. He jumped slightly and it gave Tony enough time to find America and shoot him, causing them game to end because he reached the point limit.

"Ha, in your face!" he exclaimed as he pointed to America. "I beat your ass so hard! Look at my score!"

"No fair! My phone rang and startled me! I call a rematch after I take this call. I'll be right back." America got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen, answering his phone as he took out a hamburger and beer from the fridge. "Hello?"

_"Hey, America. It's me."_ a quiet voice answered. America eyes brightened as he took a bite from his hamburger.

"Oh, hey Canadia! What's going on bro?" He was actually happy to be talking with his younger brother so he didn't have to put on his act. There was also the fact that America had avoided conversation with anyone ever since the World Conference, so he was happy to talk to someone other than Tony. He knew it was very unheroic to hide from his fears, but it worked for him in the past, so why should he change now?

_"For the last time, my name's Canada. Are you ready yet?"_

"Ready for what?"

_"Didn't you say you'd come to my place this weekend? We were going to spend time outside of Ottawa and possibly go to Meech Lake to fish. If you changed your mind, that's fine. You don't have to come."_

America slapped his hand against his forehead and looked over to the clock on the wall. It was already 11:46, practically lunch time. If he left now, he could drive up to Canada's house and be there by 2:30 - 3 o'clock. Or he could take his private plane... Damn it! Why did he have to forget this? He and Canada had been planning this for weeks; why did he always forget everything Canada related? "Sorry, bro! I forgot all about it!" he said.

_"You don't have to come. I understand."_ Canada sounded so disappointed and America couldn't take it. He had just barely started to be in a good mood for more than twenty minutes at a time and he didn't want to feel guilty for skipping out on his brother. He took a big swig of beer and shook his head.

"No!" he said hastily. "I'm gonna leave right now. Hey, Tony!" he called. He stuck his head back into the living room and saw Tony playing online with other people.

"What?" he asked, not bothering to turn around.

"You wanna come to Canadia's house with me?"

_"My name is Canada..."_

"No way! That polar bear creeps me out!" He leaned over to America and whispered in his ear. "It talks!"

America laughed and went back into the kitchen. "Since Tony's not coming, I can leave right now. Sorry I forgot! I'll be there soon, okay?"

America couldn't see it, but Canada smiled lightly. _"No problem. I'll see you later!" _He hung up and America sighed as he now had to pack some clothes for the weekend. He ran up the stairs and into his room, rifling through his closet to find some clothes. He packed some sweatshirts and a few casual dress shirts. He also grabbed a few dress pants and took his good leather shoes. He left his ties in his closet though; it wasn't like he was going to a World Conference.

He put all of his things into a small travelling backpack he had and then ran back downstairs where he went into the kitchen and grabbed his keys. Tony was still playing games in the living room so he poked his head in to say goodbye. "Hey," he said. Tony paused the game and looked over to him curiously. "You gonna be fine on your own, right?"

"I am when you're at your stupid meetings. I think I'm capable of handling myself."

"Alright, just checkin'. I'll be home probably late tomorrow night. See ya later!"

Not waiting for a response, America quickly left the living room and exited through the giant front doors of his mansion. He ran down the driveway and hopped into his red sports car. Before he backed down the driveway, he put an Avenged Sevenfold CD in the CD player and put on full blast. When he was buckled and ready to go, he sped down the road and in the direction of the highway. He laughed and rolled down his windows, sticking his head out like a dog. As he flew down the highway, his music blaring and the wind rushing past his hair, he knew he was going to have a good time.

* * *

Canada was waiting by the front door of his house when America pulled up the driveway, his music still blaring loudly. He smiled when America got out of the car and walked up to greet him, his hair all wild because of the wind. They hugged and Canada felt extremely happy that he was being noticed for once since America didn't always remember him. This was further proved when America opened his mouth to speak.

"Sup Canadia? How ya doin'?"

Canada sighed; be should've expected it. Hs smiled nevertheless and relished in the fact that he actually had a visitor. Things could get pretty boring by himself in the outskirts of Ottawa.  
"I'm fine. You seem pretty happy yourself. Are things all right at home?" He was cautious about bringing the subject of the World Conference up, but he was dying to know. Just because Russia was sitting on him, which has scarred him for life, and blocking his vision didn't mean that he couldn't hear what was going on. He had heard the gunshot so he figured his older brother was holding a gun, and if he didn't remember that he was trapped beneath Russia he could've shot Canada too. He shuddered and put that thought out of his head. The whole reason America was here was to have fun and chill out, not bring up painful memories.

"Of course they are!" America yelled. Canada flinched; why did he have to yell all the time? "Why would you think something was wrong?"

"Uh...well...the uh, World Conference..."

America flicked his hand as though it was nothing. "Ah, who cares about the World Conference? Russia was just teasing me! I can take a joke. After all, the hero never shows his weakness!" America put on a big fake smile, quickly losing his good mood. He felt the corners of his mouth twitching and he mentally slapped himself for looking so unnatural_. I'm getting worse at this,_ he thought bitterly. _All of this shit is finally getting to me. _

"...Right. Well, come on in! We should go fishing soon since the best part to do it is in the afternoon at around four."

America nodded and they walked into Canada's house and were immediately greeted by Kumajirou, Canada's pet polar bear. He hobbled over to his owner and started pawing at his leg.  
"I'm hungry, " he whined. "Get me some food!"

Canada sighed and walked into the kitchen. America had to admit, because Canada used to be a French colony, he had picked up France's taste in style. The brown granite counter tops sparkled in the sunlight and the light brown cabinets really highlighted the room. The cream colored walls were cheerful and brightened the room, and the glass backsplash on the wall behind the gas stove was a nice accent piece. America looked at all of this in awe and wished his kitchen was this good since he never bothered with designing his house to his liking. He made a mental note to starting decking out his house when he returned the next day.

Canada opened his stainless steel refrigerator and pulled out a container of cut up meat. He opened it and turned it over so the meat would fall in the bowl on the floor and he wouldn't have to touch it. Kumajirou instantly started eating the pink flesh and gave a satisfied hum. As he was eating, Canada ruffled his fur and smiled. America let out a small huff of frustration and shifted his backpack onto his other shoulder, growing a little impatient. Canada noticed this and smiled sheepishly before washing his hands and walking back into the main hall. "Here, I can take this up to your room and then we can head to the lake if you want," he said quietly.

America nodded and handed him the backpack. He watched Canada run up the stairs and as he waited for him to come back down, he leaned back on a shiny wooden table that had a vase of flowers on it. Kumajirou padded out of the kitchen, having come out of a…polar bear door. America eyed the door with some amusement, and he gave a startled yelp when he suddenly felt Kumajirou's claws on his leg. He backed up and his hand swept over the table, knocking the vase to the floor and shattering it to a dozen pieces. Immediately, Canada's panicked footsteps could be heard and he rounded the corner and sprinted down the stairs. "What is it? What happened?" he yelled. The fright in his eyes was obvious and he looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

America looked around him for the polar bear, but he had already fled to some other part of the house. He looked down at the broken vase at his feet and suddenly a wave of guilt washed over him. He didn't want to meet Canada's eyes; he felt like the kid who was just caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He held his hands behind his back and shifted his feet nervously, daring to glance up at Canada every now and then.

"America, what just happened?" Canada demanded. America flinched slightly. He had never heard Canada so fierce before. Well, except for that one time…

"Uh, Kumajirou scared me and I accidentally broke your vase… I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it! You polar bear just came up out of nowhere and started clawing at my leg! I swear, it was trying to maul me to death!" And just like that, the blame was placed on Kumajirou, the innocent little polar bear that wasn't even present because he had better things to do than deal with America's blubbering or Canada's unusual rage. America held up is hands and pointed towards a door. "And then he left! Can't you see? He's just trying to escape the blame! He's framing me!"

Canada crossed his arms and looked incredulously at his older brother. Same old America, he thought. It was just like him to put the blame on others and try to be the innocent one. "Honestly, America," he said. "Do you really expect me to believe that? I'm not that stupid, you know."

"I swear, it was that polar bear's fault!"

"His name is Kumakichi and I know you did it." He sighed and straightened his glasses which had gone askew because of the fright that had come over him. He shook his head and switched his weight to his right foot; he didn't want to argue with America. He knew his opinion wouldn't matter anyway; after all, America always had his way. "Never mind," his said after a brief pause. "It's not your fault. I understand. Now come on!" He smiled to try and brighten the mood. He walked over to a small closet behind the stairs and pulled out a tackle box and two fishing poles. "Do you want to go fishing or not?"

America smiled gratefully and took the poles as they were handed to him. He could always count on Canada to be the peacekeeper in arguments. "Sure! Let's get going!" He laughed and Canada smiled too; it was time to go fishing.

* * *

America swatted away a mosquito and his heart almost leapt from his chest when the small canoe he was sharing with Canada tipped to the side. It had taken awhile to get it fixated on the top of Canada's car, but they eventually got it secured and headed to Meech Lake, located in Quebec, with all of their supplies. It was only a few miles from Ottawa, but because Canada lived a few miles outside of his capital, the time it took to get there was doubled. When they finally pulled up and parked in the gravel parking lot, there was practically nobody there. This had both America and Canada puzzled because Meech Lake was always a popular spot to come to since it was a hell of a lot cleaner than the Ottawa River.

They took the canoe and set it in the lake. Canada got in with no problem, since he canoed on a daily basis, but America was as scared as a three year old. He set one foot in the canoe and promptly snatched it back out when it started to move underneath him. It took a lot of coaxing, but eventually they were both in the canoe and, ores in hand, set out to the middle of the lake.

That was where they were now, in the middle of the lake and practically by themselves. There were a few families along the beach and both brothers could faintly hear the happy squeals of children, though neither of them paid any attention to it. America held his fishing pole loosely and refrained from sighing in boredom. He was excited to be with his brother, but at the moment he was just _so bored. _He knew fishing took patience, something he didn't have, but why did it have to be _so boring? _

Canada seemed to be oblivious to the fact that America was dying of boredom. He sat in the canoe calmly, waiting for the fish to bite his hook. He had caught a few large fish awhile ago and so far America had nothing. Canada didn't really expect him to catch anything anyway; he was a newbie at this, so he didn't think he would have the best of luck. As he waited patiently for the fish to come, the topic of the World Conference came back to his mind slowly. He was dying to know why America reacted as violently as he did, but he was afraid to ask. What if America took it the wrong way? Would he react the same way again? Canada shuddered at the thought; he didn't want a bullet through his head.

America sighed and scratched a bug bite on his arm. He was getting frustrated with the bugs around, and the fact that he was bit in multiple places didn't help his mood much. He was slowly regaining his bitter demeanor as time went on, but he tried to hide it as best he could. He didn't want to worry Canada. After all, he could count on Canada to not question his feelings, but that still didn't mean he didn't worry. America wondered if he even knew what had happened at the Conference. Did he see it, or-

"I want to know just what the hell you were thinking at the World Conference."

America jumped slightly and again almost had a heart attack when the canoe rocked to the side. Canada's voice came out of nowhere and startled him. And he _sweared. _Sure, the word "hell" wasn't that much of a swear, but America had never heard him use any profanity in his entire life. He looked past Canada and at the trees behind him across the lake nervously. All he had to do was act oblivious and he was pretty good at that, right? "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said. Nope, he totally sucked.

Canada scoffed and turned to face him, his eyes glinting with accusation. "You know full well what I mean. Come on, spit it out. You know you can tell me,"

"_You know you can tell me," _That was the same exact thing England had told him. He never told England anything, so why did Canada think he would tell him? He didn't trust either of them, deep down. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't. It was a dog-eat-dog world out there; you never had any true friends.

"I don't want to talk about it," He turned away and pouted like a child on purpose, hoping Canada would drop the subject, but to no avail. Canada only fought back harder, his voice actually rising from a soft whisper.

"You better tell me or so help me God I will set this hook in your eye." He reeled his line in and brought the hook into the canoe, holding it up for America to see. It glinted in the sunlight and America wasn't sure if he was joking or not. He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

"I was just a little pissed, okay? Russia was being a dick so I returned the favor,"

"By pulling a gun out on him? _And _Germany? What were you thinking? You could've started another war for Christ's sake!" America rolled his eyes and turned away. Canada, getting frustrated, pulled him back around sharply. America gave a frightened yelp when the canoe rocked but he was quickly silenced when he saw his younger brother's face.

Canada looked…sad, to put it mildly. His eyes were downcast and a frown tugged at his lips. Wait, were they quivering? _Oh God no, _America thought worriedly. _Please, don't cry! Don't do it, or I'll start crying to. I'm supposed to be the hero! Heroes make people happy, not sad! What the hell is wrong with me? I hurt Canada…just like that one time…._

"Canada…please, I'm sorry I-" America couldn't finish his sentence when he saw he tears streaming down his brother's face. Canada sniffled and glared at America, his face turning red from both crying and anger. Now he'd gone and done it.

"Why, why do you always hide things from us? You always act like the hero, but I know something isn't right. Just because you don't notice me doesn't mean I'm not there. I hear everything, I see everything, and I know just enough to figure out that something's bothering you. What is it? Why won't you tell me or anyone else? What's so God damned embarrassing that you can't tell us?"

America was truly shocked. He had never seen his brother like this, so he didn't know what to say. But Canada was right. There was something wrong. There had always been something wrong. The guilt from his past was returning stronger than ever now, all because he had made Canada cry. He had sworn to himself long ago he would never hurt his brother again, but what was he doing now? He had hurt him and made him cry, all because he couldn't let his own pride go to shame.

"It's just hard…" he said. "There's so many things I wish I could change, so many things I wish never happened. I…I'm scared."

"Of what?" Canada questioned, wiping his eyes against his sweatshirt sleeve.

"I don't know. Maybe I'm not even afraid. Maybe it's something different. …I feel guilty, most of all. That feeling will never go away, no matter how hard I try to tell myself it was all in the past. There are so many stupid things I've done and regret."

"Why didn't you tell me this sooner? I could've helped you, or if you didn't want my help, England could. If you acted mature for once, I'm sure he would listen."

"It's not that easy!" America yelled. "When I see him I…I see all of the pain I've caused him. When I look at you, I remember…" his voice trailed off into silence, he couldn't speak anymore. A lump was in his throat that he couldn't push away. _Look at me! _he scolded himself. _So fucking weak! Damn him for making me tell…No! I can't say that! What wrong has he ever done me? _He stopped his thoughts at once. He didn't want to think about that, not now or ever again.

He turned away from Canada and looked out to the edge of the lake. There was nobody present, they had all gone home and they were the only ones left. He sighed and gazed into the dark lake water, searching for answers to why he was such an idiot. He was always making mistakes, he never learned and it aggravated him to no end. When would he ever stop being so stupid? "Can we just go home?" he asked quietly. He didn't receive a response. "I just want to be alone for awhile,"

"…It would be for the best." Canada finally said. He grabbed an ore and America grabbed the other. Together, they started rowing to the shore. "We both have things to think about."

* * *

That night, America couldn't sleep. He lay in bed for a long time, thinking about how a great start to the day turned for the worse. Not only did he accidentally break some of Canada's stuff and then proceed to blame his pet for it, but he also made him angry and feel detached from his older brother's life, not to mention he made him cry. Repeatedly, America had scolded and told himself that Canada probably hated him now. There was no doubt he did, but he just didn't openly admit it.

America sighed and turned to the clock on the bedside table. He fiddled with the sheets and scratched at his arm where the woolen comforter had irritated it. Nighttime got pretty cold outside Ottawa and the woolen blankets kept him warm because his host refused to turn on the heat, but it also irritated his skin to no end. He grumbled to himself and closed his eyes, hoping to finally fall asleep. A few minutes passed and he started to doze off until he finally fell into the blissful warmth and darkness of sleep.

_Smoke hung thick in the air and citizens' screams could be heard above the roaring of the fire. America stumbled out of the White House, his eyes watering and his lungs burning as if they too were on fire. He coughed and collapsed to the ground, his legs had finally given out from all of the stress and fatigue. He rubbed at his eyes and looked on helplessly as his White House burned. He had no idea where the First Lady had fled too, if she made it out alive at all, but he couldn't do anything about it anyway. There was nothing he could do to reverse the damage done._

_He had been conversing with the President's wife over her husband's attack plans when the windows broke and torches were thrown inside. Immediately, the curtains and rugs caught fire and the room's occupants began to panic. Mrs. Madison was out of her seat in a flash and she quickly grabbed hold of America, squeezing his wrist tight and making him lead the way. He assured her everything would be fine as he saw her begin to tear up, but he had no way of knowing how bad the situation really was. All he could do was lead them to safety._

_Somewhere in the burning and smoke-filled halls Dolley let go. America panicked and turned around to find her, but she was nowhere in sight. He could barely see anything and his lungs were begging for fresh air, so he reluctantly continued on through the halls. When he reached the front door, he burst through them without so much as a glance behind him. He was too tired and weak to stay inside and look for the President's wife._

_Now, as he lay on the ground, his chest heaving, he regretted his actions. He wouldn't even die so he could've stayed in the building and searched for her. Why was he so stupid? He just put the First Lady's life on the line!_

_A fierce voice brought him out of his thoughts. "America, so nice to see you." it cooed. America struggled to prop himself up on his elbow, but when he did, he looked up and saw his younger brother Canada, in uniform and armed with a musket. He glared at America and sneered at his current state; a sooty, dirty, panic-stricken man whose clothes were burnt and in some places still glowing with fire. He leaned forward and laughed in his face, an evil smile gracing his lips when America snarled._

"_Canada!" he yelled. He got up slowly and leaned on a nearby tree for support since his legs were still shaking. "What the hell is wrong with you?" He gestured to the burning building behind him. He couldn't believe that his little brother would attack him like that; what did he do to provoke him?_

"_What's wrong with me? What's wrong with _you? _How dare you try and seize my land! Isn't what you have enough?"_

"_That wasn't _my _fault!" America wheezed. He pointed a finger at Canada and glared. "We are at war with Britain, and you are British territory. It's not my fault that my army did it. It's the commanders'! They run it all!"_

"_But your President declared war. I can't believe this! Even after you won your independence you still have to quarrel with Britain! Well, I've had enough! Why can't you stop meddling with his affairs?"_

_America glared even harder and tried to step forward, but his legs could not bear his weight. They shook more than ever and America had no choice but to cling to the tree lest he fall to the ground in a smoldering heap. "Britain is taking my sailors and using them as his own! They are my citizens! He shouldn't be messing with me just to get back at France!"_

_Canada raised his gun, tears in his eyes. Although, if they were from the fire, America wasn't sure. He had never seen his brother cry before, so it was shocking to see him do it now. He didn't know what to do or say. He was not only boiling with rage from Canada's actions but also guilty for invading Canada. He had hurt his brother just to get back at Britain, and he swore right then and there that he would never hurt him again. He couldn't take it when he saw him cry._

_Canada lowered his gun and turned to a passing group of his soldiers. "Bring it down," he said, and with one final glare to his older brother, he turned around swiftly and walked away. _

_The soldiers threw the torches in their hands into the White House, causing more damage to windows and adding to the fuel of the fire. They passed America without even glancing at him and continued on in the direction of where Canada had just stormed off. _

_America watched in horror as the White House was consumed in another wave of flames and bits and pieces here and there began to collapse. He sank to his knees and held his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face. The air was getting increasingly thicker with smoke and it clogged his lungs and airways, but all he could think of was the failure his army had become. The British had come and burned down his capital building, claiming the area as theirs. Not since the Revolutionary War had anyone occupied his country. He felt a new wave of tears come and he put his hands over his eyes to shield them from the smoke. As his vision blurred, he felt himself getting lightheaded before finally passing out on the White House lawn._

America woke with a start, sweat pouring from every pore in his body. He shook like a leaf in the wind and tears were pouring down his eyes. He reached over to the nightstand in a frantic search for Texas and when he found them he hurriedly put them on his nose. He flung the covers off of him and jammed his slippers on his feet. Scrambling to the door, he burst through them and went across the hall, searching for Canada's room.

He didn't know why he went there exactly, but in a matter of seconds he was bursting through Canada's bedroom doors and flinging himself onto his brother's bed. Canada woke up panicked and fumbled for his glasses, staring with worry and wondering why his brother was crying on his bed. "America, what's wrong?" he asked. He pulled America closer to him and in response he clung to his shirt and wept into it. Between sobs and gasps of breath, somehow America answered.

"White House…burning…Britain…so sorry…"

"What? You're not making any sense."

America lifted his head up from Canada's shirt and his eyes sparkled under the moonlight coming in from the window. His grip tightened around his younger brother's shirt and he looked into his eyes frantically, searching for some sign that he didn't hate him.

"The War of 1812," he whispered. He buried his head in Canada's pajamas again and began to shake with sobs. "I'm so sorry,"

Canada sat on his bed, in the middle of the night and with a sobbing America in his arms, stunned. After a few moments of thinking, it suddenly clicked. He hugged America close to him and whispered softly to comfort him:

"It's alright. I forgive you,"

* * *

AN: So, how was it? Please leave a comment/review telling me what you thought of it. They are very much appreciated! Thanks for reading!

Mei-Ling out :3


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Holy shit I AM SO SORRY! Please don't kill me! I don't deserve all of the support you guys have given me. Really, I promised you guys an update in a week. That was MONTHS ago. Not only that, but this chapter's only a measly 3,707 words long. I hate myself right now. I could've done so much better, but it all just came to me and it was so good so I wrote it down. I don't think there's much else I could do for this chapter anyway. Please enjoy and once again, I AM SO SORRY!**

* * *

The next morning, Canada awoke not remembering what happened the night before. He always hated morning amnesia because he felt that this time it was something important. He felt around on his nightstand for his glasses and was surprised when he couldn't find them. He looked on the floor and in the nightstand drawers, but he couldn't find them anywhere. It was only when he reached up to scratch his head and his fingers brushed over the cool metal did he realize that his glasses were on his nose. He chuckled to himself and tried to sit up, but something on his chest prevented him from doing so.

Draped across his chest was America's arm. He gripped the sheets on Canada's side and wouldn't budge. Canada stared at his brother and tried to move his arm slowly, but America gave a grunt and stiffened. Canada was utterly perplexed as to why his older brother was in the same bed as him and he tried to wake him up, but America was as dead and heavy as a log. His little brother sighed and laid back down, hoping America would wake up soon and explain what was going on. As he waited in silence and listened to America's even breathing, the memory of last night came back to him and his eyes widened.

"_White House…burning…Britain…so sorry…"_

"_What? You're not making any sense."_

_America lifted his head up from Canada's shirt and his eyes sparkled under the moonlight coming in from the window. His grip tightened around his younger brother's shirt and he looked into his eyes frantically, searching for some sign that he didn't hate him._

"_The War of 1812," he whispered. He buried his head in Canada's pajamas again and began to shake with sobs. "I'm so sorry,"_

Canada gasped and sat upright, looking at his older brother in wonder. How did he get into that state? A crying and emotionally distressed America wasn't something he saw every day. Something must be seriously wrong with his mind in order for him to openly cry to Canada. He quietly slipped out of bed, gently lifting America's arm off of his chest. He tucked his older brother back into the covers and put his slippers on, heading to the door. When he reached it, he paused and looked back. America looked peaceful and without a worry in the world. It warmed his heart to see his brother genuinely happy and content for once, even if it was in sleep. He smiled and turned away, heading to the kitchen to start breakfast. He knew America would be starving when he woke up. Just that thought brought a smile to his face, so he made a mental note to make an extra batch of pancakes.

* * *

America woke in a state of confusion. He rubbed his eyes and was surprised to find that he still had Texas on. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around, growing even more confused when he didn't recognize where he was. This wasn't even his room, so why was he here? This was… His eyes widened and he sat up straight. This was Canada's room. Why the hell was he in Canada's room? He didn't remember anything from the night before. Maybe he was sleepwalking? Whatever it was, he was here now and it didn't matter. He got out of bed and headed back down the hall to his room. The door was open and the covers on his bed were thrown off like he had been in a panic the night before. He shook his head and went into his backpack to search for some clean clothes to wear. It was best if he didn't over-think it; it would only cause his mood to worsen.

The memory of his nightmare the previous night and how he had run crying into Canada's room flashed in his mind as he was buttoning up his dress shirt. He paused and inhaled sharply, staring at his reflection in the mirror. That dream, that horrible dream… No, it wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare. Hesitantly, he unbuttoned his shirt and looked at the burn mark on his chest. He remembered that day clearly, how his White House had burned. He could almost feel the burning sensation on his chest, how it ate away at his skin and charred his insides. In a momentary lapse of panic, he ran into the bathroom, took off his shirt, and splashed water on his chest. He stood gripping the sink tight and panting, looking at his frightened reflection.

_Look at me, _he scolded himself. _Getting weaker every day. _He squeezed the sink so much it broke, sending porcelain shards and dust to the floor. _God damn it! What the hell is wrong with me?_

"America?" Canada's timid voice called from downstairs. Damn, he must've heard the commotion. "B-Breakfast is ready when you want it…"

"I'll be right down," America called. He looked at himself again and brushed his hair out of his eyes. He took a towel off of the rack next to him and wiped his chest, then put his shirt back on and re-buttoned it. Heading back into his room, he grabbed his shoes and hastily stuck them on his feet and did the laces. When he was all set and ready, he left his room, ran down the stairs, and put his best smile on as he entered the kitchen. "Oh, no way! You made pancakes?" he asked as he sat down on one of the barstools at the counter. Canada smiled and set a steaming plate in front of him.

"Yeah, I hope you like them. I made extra since I figured you'd be hungry." He put a bottle of real Canadian maple syrup (not that crappy imitation stuff they sold in stores) next to his brother's plate and turned back to the stove. He flipped a few pancakes and turned back around, eyeing his brother carefully. "So, what do you want to do today? More fishing?"

"Aw hell no, man. That damn canoe almost capsized like, five times." America shoved a pancake into his mouth and gave a small grunt of satisfaction as the sweet maple syrup covered his taste buds. He swallowed hard and looked for something to drink; this maple syrup was just like chocolate. "Hey, what's-your-name," he said. Canada looked at him incredulously. "Can I have a beer or something?"

"Yeah, how about water instead? Seriously, beer at this early in the morning? I don't think so." He got out a glass and filled it with ice cubes and water from the fridge dispenser before putting down in front of his southern neighbor. America nodded gratefully and took a big swig before tackling his pancakes again. Canada watched him warily, looking for any indication that he wasn't alright, but decided to drop it and turned back to his pancakes on the stove. He probably wouldn't like it if he knew Canada didn't trust him or was scrutinizing him every waking minute. Everyone needed their privacy.

Pancakes now on a plate and swimming in maple syrup, Canada sat down in the empty chair next to America and began to dig in. He didn't need any water; he had maple syrup on a daily basis. It practically _was _water to him. "Well, if you don't want to fish, we could go hunting. I know some great places where deer like to hang out."

America shook his head. "How about we play video games instead? Don't you have an Xbox?"

"Uh, yeah, but I don't think-"

"Great!" America jumped off his seat and put his plate in the sink and took his glass and headed for the living room. He began rifling through the games on the shelves underneath the TV until he came across some PlayStation games. "No way, bro, you have a PlayStation? _And _you have Crash Team Racing? Dude, we are _so _playing this! I can totally beat your butt at it!"

Canada sighed but smiled nonetheless. Maybe America really was in a good mood today. Or maybe he was just faking it. Canada wasn't sure which one it was, but either way, he would play along for his brother's sake. Besides, seeing America happy made himself happy, so it was a win-win situation. He finished his pancakes quickly and put his plate in the sink, then entered the living room. America was inserting the game into the PlayStation and grabbing two controllers so Canada fell back onto the chesterfield and caught the controller as it was thrown his way. The PlayStation booted up, showing the familiar logo and playing the jingle he always thought was creepy, then the game started up. America went into Multiplayer Mode and picked Crash as his character- Canada, as usual, picked Polar as a tribute to Kumajirou. He picked the first map to play on, Sewer Speedway, and the game started.

America immediately gained first place by using a boost just as the lights turned green. Canada protested, saying it was unfair, but America turned around and said anything was fair in these games. He was in first place, with a disgruntled Canada trailing behind, until he got to the first rolling barrel after missing the secret passageway. He got flattened and Canada zipped past, jumping the gap with the Boost Pads way before America even got there. He, much to America's delight, got flattened by the second rolling barrel which gave America time to catch up. He gained first place and zoomed across the finish line, but it was only the start of the second lap. Both brothers leaned left and right with their character, trying to get the upper hand. In the end, America came in first, so they played another map. This time they played Blizzard Bluff, Canada's home turf.

"You're going down this time," Canada stated as the race began. Immediately he came in first because he used the boost. America held the boost for too long and burned out, causing him to stay back for a few seconds and ultimately forever be in second place. There was no catching up to Canada on this map. He simply _dominated _it. But nevertheless, America tried to catch up and failed miserably. He ended up in second place and Canada did a victory dance, much to the older brother's dismay.

"Alright, you beat my ass on that one, but what about Papu's Pyramid?" America sneered.

Canada groaned. "I _hate _that track! Pick something else!"

America stuck his tongue out and selected said track. "Nope, you made me play Blizzard Bluff, so Papu's Pyramid it is!"

The two spent the rest of the day playing on Canada's PlayStation. After they had enough of Crash Team Racing, Canada switched out the Memory Cards and inserted The Sims into the PlayStation. They made a family and played it together, although America experienced disturbing joy when he killed off some of the family members, namely Britain and Russia. They made a family of four- America, Canada, Britain, and Russia. Russia and Britain were only there for the sole purpose of killing them off. America killed Britain by locking him in a room and setting him on fire, and he killed Russia by locking him in a room and letting him starve. He laughed evilly when he saw the Grim Reaper come and Canada looked at him with concern. America was most definitely not fine, he concluded. He had some serious issues. In fact, he was practically acting like Russia right now.

Before they knew it, it was already 5:30 in the afternoon. America, as he was currently setting fire to his house in the game, glanced at his watch and jumped ten feet in the air out of surprise. Canada jumped slightly as well and starting shaking. "Holy shit, I gotta go bro!" America exclaimed. He rushed out of the living room and up to his room. He gathered all of his stuff, his clothes, toiletries, and anything else he brought, and stuffed them into his overnight bag. As soon as he was sure he wasn't missing anything, he shoved his shoes on his feet and hurriedly put on his jacket, then made sure his keys were in his pocket and ran downstairs with his bag over his shoulder. Canada was standing by the door and holding a container of leftover pancakes. He was smiling but America knew he was sad. He could tell by the twinkle in his eyes.

Canada handed him the pancakes as he approached. "If you ever get hungry on the road," he said. America looked at him for a second before hugging him tightly, causing Canada to make an "Oof!" sort of sound. "A-America…"

America pulled away and smiled. "Thanks for everything, Matt. Seriously, what would I do without you?" He took the pancakes as Canada rubbed the back of his neck and laughed nervously, his face blaring red.

"Uh, well, you're the hero, after all. I'm sure you'll be fine…"

America's face fell slightly. "Right," He smiled and opened the front door, silently cursing when he saw that it was down pouring outside. Not only that, he left his car windows open. "Well, I gotta go now. I promised Tony I'd be home at a reasonable time. Thanks so much for this weekend, man." he said. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem," Canada replied with a smile. "You're welcome back anytime, you know that."

America hopped into the car and groaned as his pants got wet immediately. He threw his bag in the seat next to him and started the car, then put it into reverse and turned to Canada. "See ya later, bro! Love ya!" He backed out of the driveway and waved, then sped off down the road. Canada waved and smiled lightly when he heard America honk his horn.

"Yeah," he said softly as he watched the rain from the doorway. "Love you too," He closed the door and smiled, happy that he could help his brother somehow.

But America would need a lot more help than that.

* * *

"But sir, it was just a misunder-"

"I don't care!" Vladimir Putin, the President of the Russian Federation, slammed his hands down on his desk and jumped out of his chair. He paced the length of his office, biting his nails and scratching his head. He stole glances at Russia, the personification of the country, every now and then. Abruptly, he stopped and turned to him and pointed at his face to make sure he was paying attention. "You," he began. "You didn't get hurt, did you?"

Russia shook his hands in front of him. "No, sir. He didn't fire the gun at me, per se, but he fired close to Germany to warn us."

"If that bastard ever thinks about hurting you, I'll find him and wring his neck!" Putin yelled. "Nobody messes with the Russian Federation, God damn it!"

"Sir, it was just a misunderstanding! We were just joking around, I swear!"

Putin stopped pacing. He turned around slowly and glared at Russia, his face murderous. "Just joking around?" he asked slowly. "_Just joking around? _He could've shot you! It would've been humiliating to the Russian people!"

"What are you suggesting, sir?" Russia questioned, eyeing him warily. If he knew his boss well enough, then surely he would say-

"War," he spat. Russia sighed. He knew it was coming either way. "How _dare _that fat bastard threaten us like this."

"But sir, do you have any other-"

"Of course I have reasons!" he screamed. "We can't just start a war for nothing!"

Russia gulped. "Then what are your reasons?"

"Do you remember the saying, 'An attack on Iran is an attack on Russia'?"

"Yes, but America-"

"America might not attack Iran yet, but they probably will eventually, and we've got China to back us up, correct?" Russia nodded. "That's what I thought. We never kicked America's ass during the Cold War like we should've. We've got the weapons, we've got the power, now we just need an excuse to use them. I say we finally put America in its place. Not only is their economy shit right now, but they have so much internal fighting, all we have to do is get in and collapse it from the inside."

Russia was sweating now, but not from the heat of the office. "You mean like Stalin, sir?"

Putin smiled and clapped his hands together. "Exactly!" he replied. "What did he say again? Oh yeah, 'America is like a healthy body and its resistance is threefold: its patriotism, its morality, and its spiritual life. If we can undermine these three areas, America will collapse from within'."

"Well," Russia started. "Not many people have faith in their country because the government is currently screwing them over," Wait, why was he helping? He didn't want another war! If anything, he wanted to talk his boss out of it! Why was he suddenly helping? "There is a lot of religion issues like the availability of contraceptives, and as for its morality, it's all over the place."

"Excellent," Putin said. "And I want Alaska back too. I told you I would get it back before Obama was out of office,"

"Of course, sir,"

"Good, we have our reasons, and damn good reasons they are, too. Shall we announce it to the public now, and then call up ours truly later?"

Russia shrugged. "Whatever you think is best, sir. You're the leader, not me."

Putin laughed and picked up the phone. "Yes, that is true." He dialed a number and as he waited for the person on the other end to pick up (he was probably calling his advisors and the press), he twirled the cord around his finger and looked longingly at the flag on the wall across from him. "Nobody messes with Russia," he said quietly. "Nobody,"

Russia bit his fingers nervously and paced back and forth. He may be tough, but right now, he was scared out of his mind. All of the memories of past wars and the pain came back at him full force and there was nothing he could do but ride it out and hope for the best.

He really didn't want another war.

* * *

When America got home a few hours later, the first thing on his mind was food. He had already devoured his pancakes a few minutes into his ride home and now he was starving. He gathered his things and parked the car, then took out the keys and headed inside. As he stepped in, he heard the faint sounds of gun shots coming from the living room. Tony was probably playing Black Ops.

"Hey, Tony!" he called. "I'm home!"

"That's cool," Tony replied. "I'm just playing video games. Wanna join?"

America pulled out a plate of burgers from the fridge and a few beers and headed into the living room. He sat down on the couch next to his little alien friend and took a bite and a swig before grabbing the only controller and turning it on. "You're on," he said after he burped loudly. "This time, you're dead!"

The two played video games for a few minutes before America's phone ran from his pocket. He smiled sheepishly at an enraged Tony and paused the game to answer it. He looked at the screen and noticed Canada's name came up.

"Hey, what's up bro?" America asked as he got up to leave the room. He sipped his beer casually and leaned against the kitchen countertops. "Did I forget something?"

"America, turn on the TV _now_." There was no mistaking the panic and worry in Canada's voice. Confused, America walked back into the living room and kicked Tony off the Xbox. He whined but shut up quickly when America told him it was important.

"Canada, what's the deal bro? Why are you so-"

"_Breaking News. We have just received a statement from the President claiming he got a call from Russian President Vladimir Putin. The President informs us now that Russia has declared war on the United States. I repeat, Russia has declared war on the United States of America. That's all we know right now, but we will continue to bring information to you as we receive it."_

America dropped his phone and gaped at the TV, his eyes wide and frightened. He blinked and fell back onto the couch, staring at the TV numbly. War. Russia had declared war. Hundreds of questions ran through his head but he didn't have the answers to any of them. Why were they doing this? What made them want to start another war? Surely it couldn't have been him, could it?

The memory of the World Conference made its way into America's mind and he gasped and sat upright. Scrambling for the phone, he couldn't help but think about how stupid he was.

_This is all my fault! _he screamed at himself. _All mine. All mine! God damn it, why am I so fucking stupid? Hundreds, thousands, who really even knows how many could die because of me? Fucking hell, it's all my fault!_

"_Hello, America, is that you?"_

"Mr. Obama, I just saw the news." he said breathlessly. There was silence on the line as he waited for a response.

"…_So you heard. I need you to come to the White House straight away. We're having an emergency conference right now, understand? Get here as soon as you can."_

"Of course, sir. I'm on my way." Wasting no time, America snapped his phone shut and put his coat back on. He rushed into the kitchen and grabbed his keys, then reached for the door. He threw it open and slammed it shut behind him, then ran to his car. In his panic, his hands trembled and he fumbled with the keys. "Fucking hell!" he yelled. When he finally managed to get the keys in, he put the car in reverse and backed out, then floored the gas and was on his way to the White House.

The whole ride, he couldn't help but think that this whole thing was his fault.

* * *

**AN: You guys are the best, really. I felt so guilty for leaving you guys for so long. I hope you can forgive me. Please comment/review and tell me what you liked/disliked. Constructive criticism please, but no flames. I don't like flames. I don't know when I'm gonna update again; I have so many stories on my plate it's ridiculous. Oh well. Thanks for reading!**

**Mei-Ling out. Peace! :3**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I feel evil. So truly evil. But it makes me feel good...Hey, at least the nations aren't actually real and this senario will probably NEVER happen! **

**Or will it?**

* * *

America paced the length of the Oval Office, his heart pounding in his ears. One hand was up by his mouth as he absentmindedly chewed on his fingernails, and the other was down at his side, his fingers snapping at sixty beats per minute. It was a nervous habit he had for as long as he could remember, and at the moment, it was thoroughly ticking the President off.

"For God's sake, quit your pacing and sit down! It's driving me insane." he snapped.

"I'm sorry, sir." America sat down on the couch and stared down at his shoes like they were the most interesting things in the world. He twiddled with his thumbs and refused to look up- he couldn't bear to see the grim look on the President's face and know that he caused it. He blamed himself for the current situation he was in, even though another war was the last thing he wanted.

Barrack Obama, the President of the United States of America, sighed and spun around lightly in his chair, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. He stared at the personification of the nation intently and could feel the frown tugging on his lips. He didn't want war, he knew America didn't want war, but he didn't for the life of him know what to do. Should he declare war or wait? Should he try to appease to the Russian President or fight? There was no way he'd get reelected in November if he gave Russia a reason to attack his country. He scratched his head and stared up at the ceiling. Every possible solution he could think of ended up being a win-lose situation. He was too tired and stressed to think of something to work, so he could only hope America had the answers he needed.

"Well, what do we do?" he asked quietly. America growled in frustration and shot his head up. He looked at the President with a stare as hard as stone and got up to pace and snap his fingers again.

"I don't know!" he yelled, but quickly scolded himself and a lost and confused look came across his face. "I just don't know," he said in almost a whisper. "I can't think of anything,"

"Should we attack?"

America snapped his head to the President in surprise. "When Russia's given us no reason to?" he questioned. "He still has nukes. So do we. If he uses them, _then _when have a reason."

Obama tapped his two pointer fingers together in thought. "What if we went over there and tried to compromise?" he proposed after a moment of silence. America shook his head and sat down again, resuming the nervous twiddling of his thumbs.

"Russia will always be crazy. Once a Communist, always a Communist."

"We could ask the G8 or the UN for help." Obama suggested. America looked up, his eyes wide as if he just had a great idea.

"...That...might work," he said slowly. His sighed and fell back onto the couch. "But I highly doubt it. And Russia is a part of the United Nations and G8, too. "

"It's worth a shot. This will also give us a chance to maybe negotiate a peace treaty so we can avoid involvement for as long as possible." President Obama picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number, waiting anxiously for the person to pick up. He tapped his fingers on his desk but suddenly stopped and sat upright. "Hello, this is the President of the United States," he said, his tone grave. "I need to schedule a United Nations meeting. _Now_."

* * *

Poland sat within the comfort of his freshly painted pink home and watched TV. He flipped through the channels dully as he casually nibbled on some paluszki and glanced over at his phone briefly. He had been getting some weird vibes lately- more specifically, he felt as though there was something going on with his neighbors to the east. He figured it had something to do with his close ties with Lithuania, but he wasn't too sure. Nevertheless, he didn't do much to confirm his feelings of suspicion except for waiting for the phone to ring. He knew he should probably pick of the phone and call Liet to see if things were okay, but as stereotypes will have it, he was too lazy to get up and put in the effort. So, on the couch he stayed, only getting up to replenish his supply of paluszki every now and then.

While flipping through channels, he stopped on the World News station when he heard the word "Russia". He turned up the volume and sat up straighter, hugging his knees to his chest.

_"The President of the Russian Federation has just announced to the public that he has declared war on the United States of America. His reasons are yet unknown, but we now have been informed that Russia is seeking help from Poland and the former Soviet Union. The President has not yet voiced his opinions on the war or has offered help, but we will continue to cover this developing story as more information is revealed."_

"Kurwa!" Poland cursed loudly. He jumped off the couch and ran to the phone, practically ripping it off of the receiver. He quickly dialed Lithuania's number and waited anxiously for him to pick up. If he decided to help that Russian bastard there'd be hell to pay.

_"Hello?"_ Lithuania's timid voice asked. Poland practically fainted from relief.

"Liet!" he shouted into the phone. "You better not be helping that Russian bastard! How could you like, do this to me?"

_"What? Who said I was taking his side? I don't want to get involved with this if I can help it."_

"Damn straight!" Poland said firmly. "Good. I only called to make sure you were okay. It'd be totally uncool if Russia made us live with him again."

On the other end of the line, Lithuania shivered. _"Of course. Listen, I have to go now. My boss is here so..."_

"Oh, sorry! I had no idea." Poland laughed sheepishly and curled the phone's cord around his finger. "Call me back later, okay? Maybe you can come over tonight and we can talk about it!"

_"Sure, sounds good. I have to go now. Sudie."_

"Do widzenia,"

Poland hung up and sighed, then collapsed back onto the couch and resumed eating his paluszki. He watched the news carefully, absorbing everything he heard. Apparently Russia was seeking help from China as well, but because China had no reason to attack one of their biggest customers, there was no way they'd fight unless America attacked first. Poland seethed at the thought of Russia taking over his land again. He hated that bastard with every fiber of his being and would do anything to stop him from taking his friends, and himself, away.

He was just about to get up for some more paluszki when his phone shrilled in the silence. He looked at it warily, wondering who it could be. He walked over to it slowly and gently lifted it from its hinges, bringing it to his ear uncertainly.

"Cześć?"

_"Ah, Привет, Польша."_ Russia said awkwardly. Poland glared at the phone and almost hung up, but then figured he could amuse himself by playing along.

"What do you want?" he asked coldly. There was a heavy silence on the other line. Poland hoped Russia was only pausing to put more logs in the fireplace because his ass was freezing.

Russia sighed after a moment. _"Listen, let me tell you first thing that I don't like what my boss is doing. I don't want war, but he's making me."_

Poland scoffed. Russia started to protest, but Poland cut him off. "Oh no, do go on," he said, faking interest.

_"I don't want to do this to you, Poland, but would you help me against America? All hard feelings aside?"_

Poland gaped at the phone._ "All hard feelings aside?!"_ he yelled. On the other end, Russia cringed. "You expect me to just forget everything you did to me? America _helped_ me during World War Two. Why would I want to help you hurt him after all he's done for me?"

There was silence. Very uncomfortable silence. Poland was blind with rage, and Russia was sighing inwardly and rubbing his forehead. Of course Poland wouldn't help him, not in a million years! But his boss told him to try, well, more like _forced_, and he didn't want to get on his boss' bad side.

_"I'm sorry, Poland. Really, I am. But if you'd just think for a second and-"_

"I've thought for a second," he hissed. "and my answer is this: fuck off." He was about to slam the phone down on the receiver, but a sudden thought made him stop. He brought the phone back to his ear and took a deep breath. "And if you even_ think_ about annexing Liet or the other Baltics, I swear I will come and kill you." he warned.

_"Threats will get you nowhere, Польша. You might have no choice anyway."_

Now Poland was pissed. "If you really didn't want a war, then you'd do something to stop it!" he screamed. He flew off into a rage, yelling obscenities and threats in Polish until his voice was raw. Russia stood and took it all, feeling that he probably deserved it anyway. After about four minutes of nonstop shouting, he finally put his hands up (although Poland couldn't see it) in surrender.

_"Alright, ALRIGHT! Stop shouting, Польша, I get it! I won't bother you again, I promise."_

"Bullshit," Poland hissed. "Lies, all lies." He slammed the phone down and stomped his foot. He shouted a few times at the phone and hurled it to the ground, too angry to realize the destruction he was causing. After venting his anger for awhile, he trudged into his kitchen and took out a bottle of Polish vodka. He usually reserved it for special occasions or whenever he was bored, but right now he needed it like he needed air. He hurriedly opened the bottle and tilted it bottoms up. The liquid burned as it went down his throat and it warmed him, giving him the false impression that everything was going to be okay.

After all, vodka solved everything, didn't it?

* * *

"He did _what?" _England exclaimed. He was currently in London, drinking tea at his table in the kitchen of his flat. Well, he _was _drinking tea before he got a call from France and ultimately spit it all out in a rather comical spit take. "Why the hell would he do that?"

"_Je ne sais pas, l"Angleterre," _France said worriedly. _"But I do know that he's looking for other countries to help him."_

England gasped. "You wouldn't dare." he hissed.

"_What? Of course not! I would never! I only called to let you know that America called an emergency UN meeting."_

England scoffed. If America was trying to get his help, then he could forget it. He really couldn't afford to get involved in another war at the moment, not when his economy was crumbling underneath his feet. After all, if America wanted to be independent so bad then why should he have to go and save his ass every time? He was already helping him in the Middle East, so why should he kill more of his people by sending them to Russia? England sighed and shifted his cell phone to his other ear. "In America, I presume?" he asked.

"_Oui. He wants everyone there now. Washington DC, he said. Go to the White House. I'll meet you there, oui?"_

"Sod off, frog. If you get involved with this, I just might have to take Russia's side so I can kick your perverted ass."

"_You wound me, rosbif, and this is not so funny." _ France scolded. England never heard him so serious before and he wasn't taking a liking to being berated by that frog when he was supposed to be the gentleman. He rolled his eyes and shut his phone before France could say anything more. He got up from his seat and quickly cleared away his tea cup and wiped the spot where he spit his tea out in surprise. Once everything was clean, he hurriedly put on his shoes and jacket, then ran down the stairs rather than take the elevator and quickly got into his car. He headed straight for the London Heathrow Airport and rushed inside, making a beeline for the gate to his private jet. Sometimes being a nation had its perks.

He boarded quickly, not even registering the fact that he didn't take his passport or a luggage of any kind. If America was talking war, then there was no time to get ready. Nations were expected to just get up and go without any questions. England had been around long enough to know the routine, so it didn't bother him in the slightest. Well, actually, it did, but there was no time to complain, and besides, gentlemen don't complain.

"Hurry up would you?" England shouted to the pilot. "It's urgent. I can't wait all day!"

"Where to, sir?" the pilot asked.

"Washington DC, America," England replied bitterly. "Get a move on, I'm expected there soon!"

The pilot nodded hastily and got into the cockpit. He had never seen Mr. Kirkland like this before, so something must be seriously wrong. "Right away, Mr. Kirkland sir!" he called. He started the engine and slowly drove out to the runway. Since it was a private plane and only a select few knew it belonged to the personification of their country, all other commercial flights were delayed at kept at their gates until England's plane was in the air.

Yes, sometimes being a nation really did have its perks.

* * *

When England arrived at the White House some few hours later, the meeting room was buzzing with the gossip among other nations. Countries everywhere were huddled together, whispering and exchanging information on the war. Over in one of the corners, Poland was guarding a shaking Lithuania, as well as an equally timid Latvia and Estonia. In another, Belarus and Ukraine were close together and whispering in frantic Russian, or Ukrainian, or Belarusian; England thought they all sounded the same. China was conversing quietly with Japan over in their seats, and France was speaking in rapid French with America. Wait, since when did America know French?

England walked over to France (because he was _not _all alone, thank you very much) and stood around awkwardly until he was noticed. When France showed no signs of knowing he was there, England rolled his eyes and cleared his throat loudly to catch his attention. America jumped but smiled lightly when he saw England and France's eyes widened before he gave him a lewd grin.

"Ohonhonhon, getting desperate, I see?" he teased. England smacked him upside the head.

"As if, frog." He turned to America and arched an eyebrow. "Since when do you know French, America? I thought you said you hated it,"

America blushed and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. France looked at England incredulously, but said Briton didn't pay any attention. "I uh, hate to disappoint you, but I'm uh, n-not America…"

France sighed. "You idiot!" he yelled to the Brit. "This is _Canada. _Surely you can remember how you stole him from me."

Recognition flared in England's eyes. He smiled sheepishly and twiddled his thumbs. "Oh, sorry about that, Canada. It's just, you look so much like your brother…And it was for his own good!" he stated, turning to France. "If I hadn't taken him when I had the chance, who knows what he would turn out to be like!"

"Are you implying that I'm not a good parent, Angleterre? Do you forget how you oppressed Amérique so much with your stupid-"

England sent France a glare so icy it could freeze over Hell. "Don't remind me," he hissed. France smirked and sat down in a nearby empty chair, resuming his conversation with Canada like he was never even interrupted. England huffed and sat down next to them, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. Damn frog, always rubbing the Revolution in his face. One of these days he was going to-

The door burst open and suddenly America and Russia walked in looking incredibly awkward. England noticed the former Soviet Republics flinch and he saw Poland moved in front of Lithuania protectively. America walked to his position at the head of the table stiffly, looking at the other nations with a smile on his face that looked too good to be true. Russia sat down a little ways from him with the same expression, his smile never wavering. America motioned for everyone to sit down and pay attention, and as everyone scrambled to find a seat, he remained standing and took out a small pad of paper from his jacket pocket.

"Hey guys, thanks for coming to this emergency meeting!" he said a little too cheerfully. "So, I'm sure you all know why you're here…"

"If I may add something, America," Russia said, glancing uncertainly to said nation. America eyed him warily but nodded anyway. "Well, I do not personally approve of what my boss is doing, so if you're going to blame someone, blame my boss, not me."

"You could've like, done something to convince your boss otherwise," Poland snapped. He hovered over Lithuania, determined not to let Russia see him and get any ideas.

"We've already discussed this," Russia replied calmly. Poland glared but shut his mouth for now. He could come up with something later.

America studied Poland intensely. He could be a good ally to have, especially if Russia ever annexed Lithuania or the other two Baltic States. Poland had good ties with Lithuania and would do anything for him, so if he was ever in danger, Poland would surely fight against Russia to get him back. America took out a pen from his jacket pocket and wrote down Poland's name on the next available piece of paper. He titled it "List of Possible Allies". So far he had France, England (technically the UK), Canada, China, and Poland. It wasn't much, but with some convincing, he was sure he got beat Russia in no time.

"So," America started. "First thing I'd like to do is gather everyone's opinion on the…subject." He really hated the word "war". All it meant was death and pain to him. "I guess we'll start with England first. England?"

All eyes turned to England expectantly. He blushed and looked down at his hands. He _had _received an opinion from the Queen herself the matter, and her decision was to stay neutral for as long as possible. Pull a Switzerland is basically what she was hinting at, but he wasn't sure if America would like that idea.

"Well," he hesitated. "My Queen wishes to remain neutral for an indefinite amount of time…"

America blanched. "Okay. France is next." France just shrugged. His government hadn't said a word about it, so he had no idea what they wanted to do. "China?" China expressed the same views as England. Only if they were attacked upfront would they pick a side to fight against. "Canada?"

As America made his rounds, over in the corner, Lithuania suddenly felt a burning sensation in his chest. His eyes widened and he gripped the area above his heart tightly. It felt like he was having a heart attack, a feeling he remembered quite well from way back in 1940. He gasped and frantically grabbed Poland's arm, alerting the other nation to his pain.

"Liet? What's going on?" he whispered fearfully. Estonia and Latvia didn't seem to pay attention; they looked like they were in their own little worlds.

"Poland I...my chest, it's-"

"Me too," Estonia and Latvia said simultaneously. All three Baltic States looked at each other in horror.

"Y-You don't think…" Lithuania started, then shook his head. "No! He couldn't!" Then his heart sunk. He had been with Russia for so long he knew he would pull something like this eventually. He huddled closer to Estonia and Latvia and began to shake. "But he would."

"Liet, what's wrong?" Poland asked again. Lithuania looked up at him with tears in his eyes.

"He's annexing us,"

Poland's eyes widened in shock. He moved back ever so slightly and bumped into a chair. At first he was horrified, but then he was pissed beyond belief when he realized he had bumped into Russia's chair.

"You asshole!" he yelled, effectively gathering the attention of every country in the room. "Why would you do that?"

"What's going on?" America questioned. He noticed Russia had been looked worried about something for the past few minutes, as if he were afraid of telling something important because of the reactions it might produce. So when Poland suddenly yelled and accused him of something, America's own worry could only grow.

"Russia's annexing Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia!"

Gasps resounded throughout the room. Russia looked down at his lap sheepishly and tried to hide his face behind his scarf. "I was uh, going to inform you in a little bit…"

"Bullshit, you were!" Poland drew back his arm and balled his hand into a fist. Nothing could stop him once he was in a rage, especially if he was raging about Russia. That bastard had annexed his best friend _again_, not to mention two of his other good friends, and now there was hell to pay. He fixed his aim right at Russia's face and brought his hand forward, but a gentle hand on his elbow made him freeze.

"Please, Poland," Lithuania whispered. "D-Don't hurt him, he'll only get angry later on…"

"But Liet," Poland protested. One pleading look from Lithuania was all it took to make him stop, however, and he reluctantly lowered his arm. He glared at Russia and took Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia by the arm and led them out of the meeting room, making sure to slam the door behind them.

The whole room fell silent as they watched the four nations go. Everyone looked at Russia accusingly and he looked down at his lap guiltily, which surprised almost all of the nations. Nobody had ever seen Russia feel bad about hurting another country, so seeing him feel genuinely sorry was a cause for concern. Either he really didn't want war, or he was just acting innocent to convince them that he was actually sorry, and then he would stab them all in the back. America couldn't help but let some of the paranoia that plagued him in the McCarthy era to enter his thoughts. He never knew what to expect when it came to war with Russia. Anything could happen, he just needed to stay one step ahead.

America coughed and looked at Russia suspiciously. "I think that's quite enough for today," he said. "This is a matter between our governments, not us as people. Thank you for coming but please consider your options."

The nations filed out of the room, whispering frantically to their friends about what had just happened. Everyone was concerned about the war; a war between Russia and America was not only the Cold War all over again, but quite possibly the start of World War Three. The world had seen enough bloodshed and was currently taking a break from anything major, but with America and Russia, anything could happen.

The other nations only hoped they could stay out of it for as long as possible, but even being neutral was getting difficult.

* * *

"Ah good, you're back. How was the meeting?"

"It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Poland took the news about the Baltics kind of hard, though."

The Russian President laughed. "You know he's next, right?"

Russia nodded stiffly. "Yes, sir."

Putin smiled and walked over to a desk covered with buttons. One stood out among the rest. It was big, red, and had the word "FIRE" in large black letters. The coordinates were already programmed in, and now all Putin had to do was push the button to unleash his wrath on the enemy.

"Should we do it now, or should we wait?"

Russia shrugged, but inside he was screaming that he was crazy. "You're the boss, sir. You say what goes."

Vladimir Putin smiled, laughed, and put a finger on the button. "That is true," he said. He beckoned for Russia to come closer and he did so reluctantly. "On three?" Putin asked. Russia nodded. "Here, I'll let you do the honors." He moved aside and Russia put a shaky hand over the button. "Ready? One, two, three,"

Russia pressed the button and watched, horrified, as a small, red missile with a dotted line behind it slowly traveled west to New York City.

* * *

**AN: Oh God, I can already picture the reactions to this chapter. But hey, it's a dark fic, what do you expect? Flying Mint Bunnies and pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows? I didn't think so. Please review so I can hear how much you probably all hate me right now. It's fun to see (techinically read) your reactions!**

**Mei-Ling out. Peace! :3**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: I'M ALIVE!**

**I AM SO SORRY! PLEASE DON'T MURDER ME IN MY SLEEP. Because if you did that, then you wouldn't get another chapter~**

**But seriously, Holy Roman Empire I am so freaking sorry you don't even know. **

**Please enjoy this chapter. I hope it's not too much of a fail. If it is, just let me know.**

**I don't deserve your support, honestly. **

* * *

Poland was not having a good day.

He was curled up on his couch, tears pouring down his cheeks. A bottle of Belvedere vodka was clutched loosely in his hand, half empty. Another bottle, this one Russian Standard, sat innocently on Poland's coffee table. He glared at it, took another sip of his Belvedere, and stood up, pacing around the table. That damn Russian vodka…he invented vodka for Christ's sake! Why did Russia get the credit?

Poland stopped where he started, staring at the label intensely. Just the name "Russian Standard" pissed him off. In one swift motion, he picked the bottle up and hurled it across the room, watching as it shattered against the wall and the smooth liquid cascaded down and spread across the floor. He seethed as the vodka met the tip of his bare feet. He stepped away, disgusted, and staggered over to his porch where he threw open the door and collapsed onto a plastic chair. First Russia takes Lithuania from him, and now he even finds ways to taunt him through vodka!

Russia had stopped by earlier that day to take Lithuania and the other two Baltics back to his house. Poland had been hiding them in his attic, hoping Russia wouldn't even bother to search, but he did and eventually found them and dragged them away. It left Poland in tears for the rest of the day and he ended up turning to vodka to get rid of his sadness. However, the alcohol only helped slightly in the beginning, but now the hurt he had experienced was coming back tenfold.

Now, as he was sitting outside in the cold, windy weather, Poland looked up at the cloudy sky, wondering why this had to happen. Why did Lithuania have to go through this? Why did _he _have to go through this? Why was Russia such a sadistic bastard? Why, why, why…everything always started with why. Why was that so?

The sound of a roaring engine, almost like a missile, brought Poland out of his musing. He blinked and searched the sky, but didn't see anything. Just when he was about to look away, a giant nuclear missile suddenly blasted past his house high up in the sky. He gaped at it and watched it fly away west. It took a few minutes for it to sink in, but when he realized that the missile was probably heading towards America, Poland leapt out of his chair and dashed into the house. He practically yanked the phone off of its handle, and he frantically dialed America's number as he heard the missile getting further and further away.

Finally, after a few moments, America picked up. _"Hello?" _he asked. _"Poland, you do know it's like, one in the morning, right?"_

Poland ran a hand through his hair and pulled on it violently, trying to keep his cool. "I just saw a giant missile like, totally heading towards your place!" he yelled, his words somewhat slurred.

"…_Poland, are you drunk?"_

"What?" Poland asked. "Why would you think that? I'm perfectly fine!"

"_Your words are slurred. Have you been drinking lately?"_

"It was the vodka!" Poland screeched. He looked over his shoulder at the scattered remains of the Russian Standard vodka bottle. "It was taunting me, America. _Taunting me."_

America was silent, probably trying to comprehend what was happening. After a few seconds, he spoke again. _"Riiiiiight," _he drawled. _"Look, you're obviously drunk, so I'm just gonna hang up now and-"_

"NO!" Poland yelled. He slammed his free hand down on the table. "Hang up and I'll kill you. I'm being totally serious; I just saw a missile heading from the east and going west. It had a Russian flag on it."

America was silent. _"You mean…Russia…OH SHIT! Dude, I gotta go!" _All at once, the connection was lost, and Poland listened with worry as the dial tone sounded in his ear. He ran a hand through his hair and hung up, looking over his shoulder to the shattered bottle of vodka. He glared at it and sat down on his couch, never breaking eye contact.

"Fuck you," he hissed. "I hope you rot in hell where you belong. Sadistic bastard!"

The doorbell suddenly rang.

Poland jumped and snapped his head towards the door. Beyond it, he saw a large figure and a tan jacket. He saw a pair of black gloved hands holding a pipe, and the rest of the body couldn't be seen.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"Oh, hell,"

Russia rang the doorbell again.

Making sure he had on the meanest glare possible, Poland walked slowly up to the door. He was about to reach for the doorknob when suddenly his chest tightened. His hand flew up and gripped the fabric of his shirt right above his heart. It felt like his heart was going to explode, and suddenly his eyes widened. This was what Lithuania said it felt like right before he was about to be annexed. This was what it felt like before having your independence taken away. Poland shuddered and backed away from the door, his eyes wide with fear.

On the other side, Russia sighed and twisted his pipe in his hands. "Are you going to open the door or what?" he asked impatiently. "It's cold out here, you know."

Poland glared through the door but didn't open it. "What the hell do you want?" he snapped.

Russia shifted awkwardly. "I just want to have a little chat, you know, comrade to comrade!"

Poland laughed bitterly and opened the door. Russia quickly put the pipe in his jacket and smiled. "We are not comrades," Poland stated hotly, "nor will we ever be. I suggest you get the fuck out of here before I do something I won't regret later."

"Oh, now you're throwing threats around. Very childish, Польша. Now if you would please, I would just like to chat, nothing more."

Russia didn't even bother to wait for a response; he just walked right in. Poland began to protest but Russia ignored him completely. Poland had the overwhelming feeling that letting this beast into his house was a bad idea, so he hesitated slightly before sighing and following Russia in. He sat down on his couch and Russia went and leaned against the wall opposite him. Russia looked at the broken bottle of vodka on the floor and frowned.

"Really, Poland? Why would you waste vodka like that?" He bent down to inspect the glass shards closer and his eyes hardened when he saw the label. "It's a shame," he said when he righted himself. "Russian Standard is pretty damn good."

"Then your definition of 'good' must be different than mine,"

Russia frowned. "Honestly, Польша, why must you be so bitter towards me? We're friends now, aren't we? Why not let go of the past like I did?"

"Now you're just playing games," Poland retorted. "Just get to the point already! What the hell do you want?"

Russia smirked and leaned forward. "You," he whispered.

Poland spit out the vodka in his mouth. "Come again?" he choked out.

Russia sighed and scratched his head, looking at his watch on his left wrist impatiently. "Poland, I'm annexing you. There. I got to the point. Now are you going to put up a fight or come with me quietly?"

"Pfft, go with _you? _Jesus Christ, you really are insane!"

"That's not very nice, you know."

Russia reached into his coat pocket and took out his pipe, holding it up for Poland to see clearly. The glint in his eyes sent warning bells off in Poland's head, but he refused to give in that easily.

"Польша," Russia warned, his voice a deep growl. "Don't make me use this."

Poland counted up from zero, keeping his eyes on Russia the entire time. He barely breathed as he watched his enemy like a hawk. When he reached twenty, he suddenly sprang up from his seat and dashed down the hall. Unfortunately, Russia had anticipated the move and immediately chased after the small blonde, knocking over furniture as he rounded corners and ran as fast as lightning. He caught sight of Poland vanishing into the kitchen and he sped up, determined to catch him. He burst through the door and stopped, panting. Poland wasn't in the room. Maybe he was hiding, maybe he had escaped outside somehow. Wherever he went, Russia was sure he would find him. There'd be hell to pay back home if he didn't.

A small intake of breath sounded from behind him and he whipped around. It was so faint he wasn't sure if he actually heard it or not, but he wanted to make sure he investigated everywhere. Behind the door he saw the tiniest piece of blonde hair, and it was just enough to let him know that Poland was indeed hiding behind it.

Russia laughed. "Really, Poland? Why don't you come out and fight me like a man?"

Fabric stirred and rubbed together lightly behind the door.

"Come on out, I won't bite." Russia coaxed. "My pipe, on the other hand…"

Behind the door, Poland was panicking, and it wasn't the kind of panicking like when he ran out of pink nail polish. No, this was the kind of panic and fear you felt just before you were about to get killed. He took a shallow breath and held it, listening to his heart pounding in his ears. Closing his eyes, he silently mouthed a prayer in his native tongue, clasping his hands together tightly.

Before he had time to open his eyes, the door flew open and Russia's metal pipe came down on his head, rendering him unconscious as he slumped to the floor, defeated.

* * *

It was around five o'clock in London, and the sun was just beginning to set. The clouds glowed vibrant shades of yellow, orange, pink, and red, and the wind blew them to the east. The leaves and branches on the trees rustled in the breeze, and the sounds of chirping birds were in the air. Everything was peaceful, and no one would think a war between two of the most powerful countries on Earth was occuring.

England sat out on his back porch, enjoying the cool afternoon air. A cup of Earl Grey tea was in his hand as he read the newpaper he had recieved that morning but didn't have time to look at. A plate of half-burnt scones was sitting next to him on a small patio table covered with a cloth that was actually the Union Flag.

Taking a scone and biting into it, England sighed and turned another page of the newspaper, frowning when he came to an article about the war. He desperately wanted his Queen to reconsider her decision to stay neutral for as long as possible, but he also promised every one of his monarchs that he'd support their decisions whole-heartedly and never question their authority. Just that fact that his Queen didn't want to make any moves was rather unsettling. Normally the UK would jump at the chance to help the US in any way they could, but for some reason, this time the Queen was playing it safe. England had no idea how long it would last, but as soon as his Queen decided to change her stance, he would support her one hundred percent.

Deciding not to read the article, England turned the page and was already reading something about his economy when he heard it. The roaring of an engine floated into his ears and chills went down his spine, paralyzing him for a few brief moments. He had never really gotten over hearing that sound. The Blitz had certainly been a terrifying period in his history, and after almost nine months of repeated attacks on his capital and other cities in the country, it wasn't like he could just forget about the sounds, the screams, the fire and smoke. Just hearing the roaring he expected the air raid sirens to start wailing, but they never did. His curiosity outweighing his fear, England looked up to see what had just passed over his land.

It was already growing smaller and smaller in the sky, but England recognized it almost immediately. As fast as lightning, he sprang out of his seat and dashed into the house. He skidded to a halt in the kitchen and practically ripped his landline off of its reciever and punched in the numbers for America's cell phone. After a few rings, America finally picked up, and England wasted no time warning him of the oncoming attack.

"You've got fifteen minutes."

* * *

The headquarters of the United States Strategic Command was buzzing with activity. Hundreds of computer monitors gave off a bright glow, and the humming produced by their engines was louder than the panicked yelling of the officers in charge. Orders were being thrown left and right to check on this, give updates on that. Everyone was nervous, panicking, and on a level of high alert, and it was not helping that some rookie was constantly yelling for everyone to remain calm.

America couldn't be calm. How could he when there was a fucking nuclear missile headed straight for his country? His citizens were in danger, so how could he possibly stay calm and collected?

He felt bad for the kid, though. If anything, that rookie was more scared than anyone else. He probably had no idea what was going on since he was so new to the team. America could sympathize with him, for on more than one occasion he had felt the same way. One particular incident stood out among the rest as he watched the computer screens update the department on the location of the missile.

_America's headache would not go away. _

_It was quite strange, really. The headache had been there ever since President Lincoln went downtown to Ford's Theatre to watch a performance of _Our American Cousin. _He had tried everything to get rid of it, but nothing would work. He wasn't even aware that nations could get headaches. After all, he had never actually gotten sick before._

_A sharp pain flashed in the back of his head as he was reading by the light of a candle. The book fell from America's hand and he screwed his eyes shut. His hands darted to the back of his head and something sticky coated his fingers. When he pulled his hand away, his eyes widened in shock to find it covered in blood._

_Ignoring the pain, America leapt out of his chair and ran down the hallways of the White House, arriving at the front doors in a few short minutes. He jammed his shoes on his feet and didn't bother to put on his coat. He was about to open the door and run down the front stairs when he heard footsteps approaching behind him._

"_Sir, is everything all right?" a guard asked. "In a hurry to go somewhere?"_

"_Something's wrong," America stated simply. "I have to go. It's urgent!"_

"_Good Lord, you're bleeding! Are you sure you're fit to go out?"_

_America started walking towards the door, growing tired of the guard asking questions and stalling him. He threw open the doors and didn't look back as he began to ran down the stairs. "Call the guards and get them to Ford Theatre and the Kirkwood House immediately!"_

_Not waiting for a reply, America took off across the White House lawn and down the streets of Washington D.C. As he ran, he could feel the spot on the back of his head where he felt the flash of pain throb with a greater intensity. He pressed one hand against it as he sprinted towards Ford's Theatre, and by the time he got there, his hand was completely coated in blood._

_When he got to the theatre, he was greeted with the sounds of screaming and an overall sense of panic and commotion. People pushed and shoved their way through the crowd to get out of the theatre and onto the street, but suddenly, the mass of people parted and six or so people came out quickly holding what looked like a body. His own panic growing rapidly, America pushed through people standing around and finally made his way into the cleared path, only to see something that would be forever burned into his mind._

_President Abraham Lincoln was being carried by three doctors as a few soldiers cleared the way, a bullet wound in his head and his blood dripping onto the pavement below._

_Without a word, America followed his President as he was carried across the street and into the Petersen House._

He was so young and inexperienced then. America had no idea that some people would be so terrible as to kill their own president. Of course, he was naïve back then, and now he knew better. He knew the dangers of being a powerful country, and he knew that what happened to his land happened to him. Attacks on his country from both outside forces and within had happened so many times in the past and present, but for some reason, the pain and panic never really went away.

"Are we ready to fire?" America asked as he leaned forward and examined satellite coordinates of the missile as it moved close to what seemed to be its target: New York City.

One of the officers nodded. "The missile is ready for launch, sir."

America nodded. "All right. Fire on the count of three. One, two, three…"

An officer sitting down at one of the long desks cluttered with computer screens flipped open a small glass box and pressed the small red button contained within it. All eyes were on the big screen at the front of the room as what was on one of the smaller screens was projected onto it.

"All clear," the man said after a few seconds of silence. "Missile's in the air."

The next ten minutes were the longest America had ever experienced in his life. The agonizing wait was even worse than when he was in the Situation Room watching a live feed from drones in the operation to kill Osama bin Laden. Not a sound was heard in the command center and he couldn't even bring himself to breathe. Everyone watched in absolute silence as the radar showed their missile beginning to fly over the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

Another few moments passed and suddenly, the two missiles met on screen halfway over the Atlantic. Both dotted lines stopped, and with it, time seemed to stop as well. The man who had fired the missile checked the reports once, twice, three times before turning around in his chair and smiling.

"The target has been terminated. The skies are all clear."

All at once, everyone in the room breathed a sigh of relief. America was so relieved he could hardly stand up. He staggered over to an empty chair and sat down heavily, taking deep breaths. His heart was beating rapidly as he watched the officials around him smiling and cheering.

_Calm down, _he told himself. _Everything's fine. We got it. _America smirked to himself and pulled out his phone, scrolling down to find the President's number. _Two can play at this game, Russia, _he thought as he pressed "Send".

It was time to declare war.

* * *

**AN: So, was it horrible? You know, I wouldn't blame you at all if you hated me from the very depths of your soul because I suck at updating on a somehwat regular basis.**

**PLEASE GO TO MY PROFILE TO VOTE FOR WHAT SHOULD BE UPDATED NEXT. I'm bad at explaining things; the poll will tell you itself. If you've read some of my other stories, than you can vote on which story you want updated next.**

**Mei-Ling out. Peace! :3**


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